By Life or Death
by Mariole
Summary: AU, book canon. Strider and the four hobbits encounter a troll during their journey to Rivendell. Includes an explanation as to why Aragorn carries the Broken Sword. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

Note: All quotes from other characters that Aragorn hears in his dreams are taken from various chapters and Appendix A in _The Lord of the Rings_.

Disclaimer: Nothing of J.R.R. Tolkien's is mine, except for the pleasure that his books have always given me.

-0-0-0-

'_Surely this is a troll-hole, if ever there was one!' said Pippin. 'Come out, you two, and let us get away. Now we know who made the path—and we had better get off it quick.'_

'_There is no need, I think,' said Strider, coming out. 'It is certainly a troll-hole, but it seems to have been long forsaken. I don't think we need be afraid. But let us go down warily, and we shall see.' _

—"_Flight to the Ford,"_ _The Fellowship of the Ring_

-0-0-0-

The four hobbits had been so relieved to have discovered Bilbo's stone trolls in place of live ones that they seemed to have cast all further fears aside, Aragorn was pleased to note. At least, three of the hobbits appeared carefree. Aragorn was uncertain as to what Frodo's silence meant—whether he had anticipated the joke that the sight of the long-vanquished trolls would play upon his kinsfolk, or if he was too preoccupied with his injury to keep his attention on the outside world for long. The answer worried Aragorn, because it mattered. They were traveling slower than he liked, even slower than he had hoped, given the additional obstacles posed by the terrain. If Frodo was already fading, with days of travel still to go before the little party could possibly reach Rivendell, all their efforts might be in vain.

Aragorn put the thought from his mind. He could do nothing to improve their circumstances. The party would be best served by Aragorn holding them to the required path for as long and as fast as they could travel, and keeping his concerns to himself.

And concerns he had. Although it was true that the troll-hole he had explored with Merry had indeed been long abandoned, the clearing that held the trolls themselves told a different tale. Whilst the hobbits finished their luncheon beneath the shadow of the trolls' legs, Aragorn had made a circuit of the glade. The grass near the edge of the little meadow had been recently crushed by gigantic, flat feet. When Aragorn explored the exit point into the wood, a broken limb, still redolent with sap, warned him that the passage must have been forced no later than the night before. For this reason, as well as the need to find the Ford, Aragorn was eager to reach the Road. At that point, there would be the Nine to contend with. However, Aragorn doubted that they would make their move yet. They must think hourly that Frodo would fall under their spell, and might well be puzzled why he had not already done so.

The small creature's fortitude was a constant source of wonder to Aragorn. He was awed by the ability of the delicate-looking hobbit to withstand the influence of the Morgul wound, two weeks after receiving it; the Nine would have even less reason to suppose that Frodo was capable of it. On the other hand, a troll would make short work of all the hobbits, whenever and wherever he found them. No, the troll fells must be deserted at speed. The Road it must be, and as quickly as possible.

-0-0-0-

Sam grew more fretful as the daylight faded. The sun had set behind the hills, and the trail their party followed underneath the overlapping limbs of the trees grew increasingly dark with the advancing night. Still Strider led them on, as quickly as they could walk. Sam had to hand it to him; that old Strider seemed to know his business. Yet Sam felt uneasy. He hadn't gone into the troll-hole like Mr. Merry had, but just the stink of it were enough to discourage Sam. It bothered him that that same stink tainted the meadow where Mr. Bilbo's trolls stood. Were they magical creatures, that they kept that smell about 'em, so many years after they were gone? Whatever it was, Sam was right glad to put the clearing behind him, for all that the sunlight and the memory of Mr. Bilbo had seemed to cheer his master for a time.

Sam cast a wary glance at Mr. Frodo, perched on Bill's withers whilst Sam walked alongside, holding the lead rope. His master was swayin', and it weren't just from the rhythm of the pony. It had been a long day, and they still were not down to the Road. Now and again, Sam caught the Ranger sneaking glances at Mr. Frodo when he looked about to make sure the party was in file behind him. For all their guide's scraggly face and weather-beaten looks, Sam thought he detected worry in the Man's expression. Well, that were fine by Sam. He had no more doubts that Mr. Strider was a true friend of Mr. Frodo's, for all their shaky start. Concern for his master was the surest test of friendship that Sam could think of.

Bill stopped suddenly, planting his legs so smartly that Mr. Frodo was flung forward onto his neck, and might have fallen had Sam not been there to catch and steady him. Bill threw his head and snorted, jerking the lead rope free. Mr. Frodo winced at the jostling, reaching for his shoulder. Sam grabbed hold of his master and eased him from the pony's back, afore Bill could cause him any more distress.

"What's the matter with you, Bill?" Sam demanded, torn between anger and concern as he buffered Mr. Frodo's descent with his body. Mr. Merry, who'd been walking behind, rushed forward to lend a hand.

At Mr. Merry's movement, Bill laid his ears right back. Tired as he was, he gave a little buck, and then bolted, ears flat and eyes wild.

Pippin, walking between Bill and Strider, was caught by surprise. "Hey!" he yelled, as part of the pony's baggage slapped him in the shoulder, toppling him to the dirt.

Strider, alerted by the noise, sprang out of the way. Bill took off into the darkening woods at a canter.

"Stop him!" Sam yelled.

To Sam's dismay, Strider turned right back, not seeming to mind the pony at all. He paused only long enough to pull Pippin to his feet, then strode to where Sam and Mr. Merry were standing, holding Frodo between them. Sam's head tipped up, and up, as the Man closed in. He'd been near three weeks in the company of this fellow, and Sam still weren't used to his height. But those weeks were more than enough for Sam to keep his wits about him. He began to speak his mind, even before the Ranger reached him.

"What's the meanin' of letting Bill run off? We need him for Mr. Frodo!"

To Sam's bewilderment, Strider ignored his outburst, reaching past him to seize Mr. Frodo under the arms. "Give him to me."

Astonished, Sam loosened his hold. Mr. Merry seemed surprised in the other direction, and tightened his grip, so that Mr. Frodo cried out when Strider tried to lift him.

"Quickly!" Strider barked. Mr. Merry let go. Strider gathered up Mr. Frodo behind the shoulders and knees. "Arm yourselves," he instructed.

Mr. Pippin had joined them by then. His eyes widened at Strider's command.

Mr. Strider straightened, holding an alarmed Mr. Frodo against his chest like a child. The Man's grey eyes flashed in the gloom. "Hurry!" With that, he dashed into the woods, due east, by Sam's reckoning, which was not the direction Bill had took. The pony had vanished heading downhill, towards the south.

Mr. Merry drew the blade that old Tom Bombadil had given him at the barrow. It rang chillingly in the quiet of the woods. Mr. Merry shot his companions a fierce look. "Come on!" he cried, before rushing off after Strider and Mr. Frodo.

Startled out of his shock, Sam fumbled for the weapon at his side. He pulled it out, feeling a right fool. He had no learnin' in this. What's more, Sam had no idea what he were supposed to fight. He hoped it weren't wolves. Sam had heard horror stories about wolves, and he didn't care to meet one. But something was on its way without question; nothing less could account for reliable old Bill spooking the way he'd done.

Beside Sam, the metallic ring of steel pierced the still air, as Mr. Pippin drew his own blade. Sam met Mr. Pippin's eyes. The young hobbit looked as full of fear and determination as Sam supposed he must himself. Then Mr. Pippin dashed away after his cousins. Sam followed on the instant, plunging onto the soft pine needles on the forest floor, striving with all his might to catch the long-legged Ranger, who was already far ahead.


	2. Chapter 2

Aragorn hugged the injured hobbit to his chest, hoping that a firm hold might spare Frodo some of the jarring as he ran. His occasional glance at his passenger showed Frodo's face screwed up against the pain, though no sound escaped his lips. Gandalf had been right again—not that Aragorn should have been surprised. For all Frodo's gentle manners and well-bred looks, the little hobbit was proving himself to be tougher than Aragorn had ever dreamed he might be. Aragorn no longer doubted that this small and comely exterior housed a core of pure steel.

Aragorn kept his ears cocked for the sounds of pursuit. He easily distinguished Merry's footfalls and, farther behind, the overlapping patter of the remaining hobbits, forced to abandon their habitual lightness of step in the imperative for speed. Beyond them Aragorn heard nothing, as yet. He hadn't the keen nose of Bill, but he was only too certain what enemy pursued them. He hoped that the pony's warning had given them sufficient time to save themselves. It would be regrettable if the dependable Bill ended up sacrificing his life for theirs. Yet Aragorn would be thankful, if it came to that. A wandering troll would be less likely to pursue them, once he had eaten his fill of pony.

_Unless he wanted revenge._ Aragorn recalled the footprints he'd seen in the clearing earlier that day. Did a passing troll happen across some of his compatriots by chance, and laugh, perhaps, at their fate? Or did he visit by design to greet old friends or kin, and feel the rage rise anew in his breast? The answer might well mean life or death for some or all of their little party.

The terrain was rough. All these days, it had worked against them. Now, Aragorn hoped that this feature might aid them. As they descended the mountainside, Aragorn had noticed a fault in the ridgeline to the east. Such a structure might produce caves or cliffs that they could use for cover. At the least, it would allow Aragorn to put rock at his back, so he needn't ward off an attack on all sides. Still, if there was more than one troll, Aragorn doubted that their party, such as it was, would be able to hold them back for long.

_Bill, _Aragorn thought, _you have been a faithful friend. If it is your fate to save the life of your new master, by laying down your own, then I will bless you for your sacrifice._

The only response was the pounding of Aragorn's heart. He plunged into the deepening night, hoping that the other hobbits would not fall too far behind.

-0-0-0-

Pippin had never been so scared in his life. Well, there had been the barn fire, years ago, but that was a different kind of fear than this. And he'd been terrified by the Black Riders, but that was their own particular magic. They used fear as a weapon. Strider had explained that, in an attempt to console Pippin for his cowardice at flinging himself to the ground during the attack on Weathertop. Merry hadn't been happy about his own behavior that night, but Pippin thought that Strider must be right. The fear from the Black Riders had seemed to come from _outside_ of Pippin—almost like a cloak that covered his body, and left him cold and shivering under its blanket.

What he felt now was a whole different kind of terror. This was terror from _inside_—the terror of the hare, the panic of the pursued deer. Pippin had hunted many creatures in the woods and fields of Tuckborough. He'd always felt a compassion for them, and trapped or took them with fast-flung stones as humanely as possible. Now Pippin was on the receiving end of the hunt. Too well he could imagine the despair of the cornered prey awaiting a final, killing blow, or feeling its life squeezed out between crushing jaws.

Sam puffed beside him, struggling to make his stout body move faster than it usually did. He gripped his salvaged sword awkwardly, like an axe. Pippin supposed he'd never held such an instrument before in his life. Pippin had, of course. The Tooks had always possessed an armory, "In case of need," his father had said. Merry had fenced with him on occasion, since Pippin was quite a lad. Pippin wondered how he might do now, in a real engagement against a real enemy. Would he have the courage to stand up to whatever unnamed foe might at any moment be snapping at their heels? Or would he shame himself yet again, covering his eyes and trusting the more experienced members of the party to defend him?

Pippin set his jaw. He would _not_ shame himself. He meant to protect Frodo this time, and if it cost him life or limb in the process—so be it.

-0-0-0-

Aragorn didn't slow at the sudden appearance of a steep-sided gorge, a stark reminder of the heavy spring runoff earlier in the year. It was barren now, with crumbly sides and pale patches that might be stones jutting from the earth. Aragorn had more pressing things to occupy him than the finding of his feet. Without consciously thinking about it, he made for what looked to be a firm bank on the farther side, relying on the experience of many years to guide him, even when he could not see the ground clearly. He had no intention of stumbling whilst bearing his important passenger. After their drawn-out adventure, the hobbit's weight was slight. Aragorn compensated for his diminutive cargo, and leaped. He hit the ground solidly, recovered his balance instantly, and was already scanning the rocks ahead before he'd straightened from the jump.

A lichen-encrusted rock face loomed before him, not twenty feet away. Even better, a natural chimney pieced its face, where the cycles of freezing and thaw had split the rock in twain, leaving a crack perhaps four-feet wide streaking up the cliff's face to its summit, some sixty feet overhead. Four feet was not wide enough to swing a sword, should Aragorn have to use the place as a fortress. However, the chasm might be slender enough to keep out the ravening paws of a troll—provided the crack was deep enough.

Aragorn jogged to the gap and stepped inside. There was indeed a shelf about six feet from the ground, but it wasn't nearly far enough back to keep the hobbits from harm; it could be no more than three or four feet from the entrance. He cast his gaze upward. The chimney would be climbable, if all else failed.

"Are we stopping?"

Frodo's soft voice startled Aragorn. He'd been so quiet, Aragorn could have imagined him entranced or asleep, even though he knew better.

"Only if this cleft provides a sufficient means of protection, or escape." Aragorn nodded at the jagged chute. "If I could hold the enemy outside, you hobbits could climb to safety."

Frodo shook his head, his thick hair moving against Aragorn's chest. "Strider, I could not climb such a structure, were all the fiends of Mordor at my heels."

"It's easier than it looks, Frodo. You place your back against one wall, and your feet against the facing one…"

Even as he said it, Aragorn realized his mistake. A human, even an injured one, could manage such a climb, if need demanded. But for one such as this hobbit, whose entire height was inches short of the shaft's narrow width, the feat was blatantly impossible.

The twinkle of Frodo's eyes, even in the dark, let Aragorn know that his lapse had been noted. "Just brace myself against the wall, and walk up to safety?" he said dryly.

Aragorn backed out of the cleft. "I'm sorry, Frodo. I wasn't thinking clearly." He turned to see Merry scrambling up the near side of the gully that Aragorn had leaped across in a bound. Pippin and Sam were beginning their descent on the farther side.

"I will not tell the others." Frodo caught Aragorn's eyes and smiled. "I would not have their confidence in you shaken. It was a minor mistake—and I can't find it in myself to fault you for thinking like a Man."

"You are too kind, Frodo," Aragorn said harshly, but he meant it. Mistakes might be permissible in the forgiving setting of the Shire. Out here, far from help, a single blunder could prove fatal.

Merry staggered onto the turf at the narrow gully's edge. Gaining his feet, he turned to lend a hand to his companions, scrabbling now across the bottom of the ditch. He called over his shoulder, "Are we stopping here, Strider?" He nodded towards the cleft.

"No." Without waiting, Aragorn turned and jogged downhill, scanning the profile of the cliff, a jagged dark shape against the slightly lighter sky. He was looking for some fissure, or an abutment of two faces of rock, that might indicate another chimney, perhaps one narrow enough for the hobbits to climb. How narrow would suffice? Two feet across—less? Aragorn had never had to accommodate his training for beings who were so very small.

Frodo was also scanning the stone wall, but near its base. As Aragorn jogged along, swiftly but not running, Frodo gripped his arm with his good hand. "There. What about that?"

Aragorn lowered his gaze. Part of the cliff wall had tumbled onto the lawn, leaving a gaping hole at its base. The rotten rock lay scattered about the newly made cave; so much loose stone would make the terrain dangerous to fight from.

"I'm afraid that's not as deep a cavern as we need—"

"No, _that_." Frodo pointed farther downslope.

Two enormous rock faces met at the site of a natural fault. The downslope face stood a good eight feet lower than the upslope rock. The ages-old shattering of the rock near the juncture had formed a steep-angled cave. Its depth was impossible to determine, for its mouth revealed only inky shadow. However, the fallen stone had long ago tumbled downhill. A few the larger boulders jutted naked from the turf, but most of the smaller stones had been swallowed by the springy, short-stemmed ground cover. It was perhaps the best place they could hope to reach, given the time they had. Aragorn's heart pounded and he stepped forward, willing the cave to be deep enough.

He gave his charge an encouraging squeeze. "Excellent, Frodo. Thank you." He leaped over the stone-specked turf, conscious of the following whisper of hobbit feet, soft now on the cushiony lawn. But the stones of the earth do not lie. Even as Aragorn hurried for the cliff opening, he could feel, with every stride, a trembling in the soil. Some large thing was making the ground shake, and it was getting closer.


	3. Chapter 3

Merry felt such a mixture of anxiety and rage, it was a wonder he didn't burst. First Bill had almost thrown Frodo—that was enough to put his heart in his throat right there. Then Bill had bolted in one direction, followed almost immediately by Strider scooping up Frodo and sprinting off in another. The only thing Merry could do was try to run fast enough to keep Strider in sight, whilst holding far enough back so that Pippin and Sam didn't become lost in the forest. He ground his teeth, frustrated at Strider's precipitance, and only too fearful of whatever horror might come upon them from behind. At any moment it could catch them up, and perhaps snatch Pippin away in its jaws. Despite this fear, Merry daren't hold back for him; he couldn't risk losing Strider and Frodo in the dense woods.

Fortunately, he managed to close most of the gap whilst Strider was looking over a crevice in the rocky face of the cliff. Chest heaving, Merry crawled out of a steep gully that the Man had leapt across. He extended his hand towards Pippin, who, although winded, was fairly easy to pull up the bank. Both of them were needed to bring up Sam, whose feet scrabbled futilely at the crumbly soil, sliding as much backward with every step as he climbed forward. At length Pippin threw himself flat and seized Sam by his sword belt, gaining enough leverage to haul the sturdy hobbit onto solid ground. By then Strider had taken off with Frodo again. Merry cursed under his breath. Ignoring the stitch in his side, he staggered into a run to follow.

Strider quickly gained ground, his longer legs leaping over half-sunken boulders that Merry was forced to go round. At least Strider wasn't running full out any longer, Merry noted with wry relief. He seemed to be studying the cliff wall, perhaps looking for a place to shelter. And he was harder to lose, out here in the open. The trees thinned as they approached the rock face, leaving a clear area perhaps twenty feet wide. Merry supposed there wasn't enough sun at the base of the cliff to support the roaring forest that loomed black and ominous on his right.

Gasping, Pippin snatched his arm. "Do you hear it?"

Merry cocked his head. Something far away was crashing its way through the woods. It occurred to Merry, now that he was alerted to it, that he could feel the vibration of its footfalls through the earth. Whatever was closing on them must be huge.

Sam, wheezing like a bellows, pointed downslope. "Look!"

Merry looked ahead in time to see a distance-reduced Strider stepping into a great steepled notch in the rock. The apex of the opening joined in a peak at least the Ranger's height again above his head. Such a large cave might be big enough to accommodate a troll—Merry had no doubt that that was the monster that pursued them. Yet they must find shelter. He tightened his fists. "Come on!"

Apparently there was some sort of drop before the cave opening. In the tricky light, Merry almost ran straight off it into empty air, before he realized that the land fell away. He stopped with a jolt that was rewarded by Sam crashing into his backside, almost sending the both of them toppling down the uncertain height.

Pippin, drawing to a halt on Merry's opposite side, squawked and snatched at his elbow. He pointed behind them, uphill. Merry looked.

Enormous. So huge it defied comprehension. Merry had thought that Strider was tall. The behemoth charging along the cliff face towards them was at least twice that height. It was like a two-legged hill—solid as a wall, shaking the ground like thunder, and exuding a stench of offal that heralded its approach on the wind.

Merry seized Pippin's wrist. "Down, get down!" He swung his smaller cousin over the brink, stooping to take full advantage of their extended arms, and let go. Pippin fell perhaps his own height, landing with a grunt—a small, hunched bundle in the gloom. So, that was the distance; twice a hobbit's height, or a little more. Sam seized Merry's arm, as if to do the same for him—when a horrid shriek of such rage and hate broke out behind them, they both nearly jumped out of their skins. The two hobbits exchanged a terrified glance—then leaped off the embankment together.

Merry landed awkwardly on a stone, bruising the arch of his foot. Automatically his hands reached out to check his would-be face plant into the turf—fortunately. Heaven knows what other stones might be lurking, unseen in the murk. Before he could get his bearings, someone was hauling him desperately to his feet. "_Go, go, go!_" Pippin's voice. Merry careened after him as Pippin yanked him across the turf towards the cliff's dark opening. Merry could hear Sam puffing at his heels, but apparently the former gardener was too winded to utter a sound.

Just as Pippin and Merry were about to scramble into the cave mouth, an enormous leather-clad limb sprouted from the pitch blackness inside, planting itself in their path. Pippin cried out and jumped back, tangling with Merry. Merry seized his young cousin about the shoulders to keep him from stumbling, automatically lurching away from the enormous being.

An oversized arm detached itself from the darkness. It gripped Pippin by the waistcoat. "Come inside, quickly!" Pippin was snatched off his feet, and vanished into the cave mouth.

_Strider_. Heart hammering, Merry hurried after the Man into the gloom. He could hardly make out the stone floor more than three steps inside. He wondered how Strider was able to see.

There was some scuffling in front of him, high above his head.

"Stay with Frodo," Strider commanded. "Guard him. I have taken his dagger, and he is unarmed."

"Yes, Strider," came Pippin's chastened, quaky voice.

With no vision to warn him, Merry was unprepared for the pair of large hands that suddenly gripped him by the arms. He yelped as he was hoisted into the air. An unseen rock shelf scraped his toes. Hastily, Merry tucked his feet close to his body. Grit-covered stone met his knees, and he was released onto a high shelf. A body radiated warmth beside him. Beyond it, raspy breath told him where Pippin had come to rest. The hobbit beside him must be Frodo.

Merry looked back towards the entrance. To his relief, he could see. The relative lightness of the night made the patch of ground before the cave entrance luridly visible. Under the arch of the opening, the black silhouette of a hobbit stooped, hand moving rapidly from the cave floor to a makeshift sack formed from his cloak. He appeared to be harvesting beets, plucking them up frantically, and dropping each of them into his cloak sack with a small, sharp tick.

The tall shape that was Strider closed in on the small one. Stooped over like that, even the sturdy Sam came only to the Man's knee. The long arms stretched out. "Hurry, Sam."

"Half a moment, Mr. Strider, sir!" Sam's voice squeaked, but in excitement, not terror. His hand scrabbled frantically over the cave floor.

"Now," said Strider, and lifted the hobbit straight up. Sam squawked as he was swung into the darkness. Merry sympathized with that helpless feeling. Fortunately, Merry could now see well enough to guide Sam towards a somewhat more cushioned landing on the rock shelf than his own. Sam tumbled forward as Strider released him. A pile of objects clattered from his cloak, scattering over the ledge. Merry automatically reached for one that rolled into his knee. A… rock?

Sam smothered a yelp. Frodo's voice was concerned. "Sam, are you hurt?"

"No." He plunked down on the stone ledge between Frodo and Merry, his shape barely discernable in the dark. "Just knelt on a stone."

Pippin's voice was hesitant. "You brought up… stones?"

"For throwin'," Sam panted, still vastly short of breath. "I didn't like the idea of that monster getting close enough as I'd have to use my dagger on him, not when I could keep a bit of distance between."

_Stones!_ Merry berated himself for an ass. Why hadn't he thought of grabbing some rocks himself, whilst Pippin was lifted to safety?

The hiss of metal on scabbard drew Merry's attention downward. He could just make out the top of Strider's head, as he lingered near the rock shelf onto which he had deposited the hobbits. It was odd to be looking down at Strider, instead of upwards at his chin. Merry reckoned they must be seven feet off the ground. The rock shelf was about the same distance inside the mouth of the cave. Would it be deep enough to hold the monster off?

Merry wiped a sweaty palm against his breeches, and took a fresh grip on his sword. He could not forget the sheer size of the brute that had chased them along the front of the cliff face. Merry swallowed. No. The seven feet into the cave would not be nearly deep enough for protection, particularly if the creature managed to force his way in.

A roar came from close at hand, sending Merry's heart into his mouth. He shifted the sword to his left hand, and snatched up a stone in his right. He held it ready, arm cocked, and stared at the narrow opening.

A crash shook the stone beneath his knees. Outside, two enormous grey legs, like the pillars of trees, hit the ground below the Man-high drop. The creature now stood directly in front of the cave, some ten feet beyond its mouth. Merry hefted the stone, ready to let it fly.

The creature did not approach. Before it could recover from its fall, a dark shape burst from the cave mouth: Strider. A blade flickered in either hand: the one in his left, elegant, leaf-shaped, perfectly crafted to be a fighting tool of a Man, having been crafted by Men long ago. Frodo's blade, twin of the one that Merry clasped in his own slippery palm, as doubtless Sam and Pippin were now doing with theirs.

In the Man's other hand gleamed a blade so keen it seemed to emit a light of its own, though no moon had yet risen. Its too-short length made it seem stocky, awkward, its jagged edge like an open wound on the night air. The Blade that was Broken. Merry felt the wrongness of it, like a jarring in his blood. The edge glimmered like molten ice, arresting his vision and holding it. It should be whole. It should have the graceful length that suited its design and its purpose: to slay the enemies of those who would be free, and bring low the legions of darkness.

All this passed through Merry's mind in the fraction of an instant. The next moment, with a roar, Strider leaped forward to engage their foe.


	4. Chapter 4

Aragorn stepped into the dark hole of the cave, Frodo cradled in his arms. At first he could see nothing, the darkness was so complete. But the echo of his footstep came quickly back to him. The cave was shallow, but deeper than the other. Given the time remaining to them, it must suffice.

Aragorn set Frodo down gently, just inside the entrance. "Bide a moment." He shuffled forward, arms extended. Within a couple of steps, he sensed rock looming before him. His fingers touched stone. Aragorn swept his hands over the surface. The first cave had had a ledge. Perhaps, if that line of stone ran the length of the cliff face, he would find—

There. At a height just above his head, Aragorn's fingers lapped onto a shelf. His hands made out the length of it; it was about five feet wide, slightly narrower than the cleft in which he stood—not surprising, as the entire cave narrowed as it tapered towards the ceiling. Aragorn could not begin to guess the depth of the shelf from his position on the ground.

Turning, he discerned Frodo's petite shape leaning against the entrance. The hobbit held his left arm with his right; their flight must have aggravated his injury. Wincing in sympathy, Aragorn bent towards him.

"Frodo, there is a ledge, but I'm not certain that it is deep enough to hold you. Might I lift you up to see?"

"Of course."

Frodo's collected tone reminded Strider that he was dealing with a rational creature, one that had remained composed despite all the fear and haste of their present situation. Perhaps it was his height that made Aragorn continue to underestimate him. Aragorn resolved to do better in future.

Carefully, he gripped the hobbit's chest beneath the arms. He raised him overhead so that Frodo was level with the ledge. "Put your legs forward," he cautioned. "Feet first."

"They are."

He heard bare hobbit sole slap against stone, then Frodo stepped up and slipped onto the ledge. Aragorn released him when he felt Frodo take up his own weight.

"The ceiling is low." Frodo's voice rang hollowly, and his clothing scuffled on rock. "But the shelf is wide enough. The back is… no, it's blocked. I thought there might be a passage, but it's only crumbled stone."

"How far back does it go?" Aragorn's heart pounded. _Let it be deep enough._

"Not far. Maybe… eight or nine feet?"

Aragorn closed his eyes, imagining. Nine feet should be enough. Even if he failed and fell, it's possible that the hobbits would survive, at least this initial attack. What might happen if the troll chose to stake out the mouth of the cave afterwards, was rather less doubtful.

_No._ Aragorn would do none of them any good by dwelling on grim possibilities.

At an enraged roar, he spun towards the entrance. Outside the cave mouth, the three remaining hobbits were flinging themselves off the earthen bank, landing awkwardly on the turf. They must be mere seconds ahead of the ravening troll.

Aragorn shrugged off his pack. "Frodo, give me your blade." He dumped his gear hurriedly in the corner. He would need every advantage of lightness and speed he could give himself.

There was a rustling from above, then the slap of leather against stone. "I've put my belt over the edge. Can you feel it?"

Aragorn turned back to the ledge and swept his hands along the stone; almost instantly he found the sword belt. He followed it up to grasp the scabbard, then swept the whole thing down. Hastily, he propped the blade in the corner, where he could find it again easily by touch.

Three panicked hobbits were just reaching the entrance. Aragorn took two strides forward, and snared the first of them—Pippin, as it chanced. The little creature cried out and jerked away. Panicked, indeed.

"Come inside, quickly!" Aragorn barked, hoping the sound of his voice would penetrate the haze of fear. It worked, for Pippin stopped fighting him. Aragorn pitied him; such a young creature, so ill-prepared to face such a terror as this. He spoke again, hoping to restore some of Pippin's fragile confidence. "Stay with Frodo. Guard him. I have taken his dagger, and he is unarmed."

Pippin answered tremulously, "Yes, Strider."

Aragorn stooped to retrieve Merry, who fortunately seemed more composed. Most stoic of all was the redoubtable Sam, who was so busy collecting a cache of rocks that Aragorn had to forcibly sweep him up and set him in place next to the others. Aragorn groped for the corner, where he had set Frodo's Arnorian blade. Finding the scabbard, he drew the dagger and took it into his left hand. His right he reserved for Narsil.

_Narsil_. Rarely did he adventure with that blade, for obvious reasons. Yet it had seemed right for him to carry it on his current errand, given what Frodo bore. With Isildur's Bane arisen, Aragorn preferred to have the weapon that had vanquished its master close at hand. Narsil—the blade that had separated Sauron from his Ring, and from his former rule. Even broken, its cunning steel had pierced the old tyrant's enchanted flesh, and so ended his malevolent reign. The craftsmanship of Telchar had never been rivaled, not by the Noldor, and not by all the generations of Naugrim since. Aragorn could feel the power locked within the metal, flickering up his palm through the hilt like lightning. Reverently, he drew the ancient blade.

Just in time. The behemoth that was the troll crashed to earth, after leaping down the man-high embankment into the clear space before the cave. Its roar fired Aragorn with a familiar energy born of adrenalin. This necessity, which he hated, was all too common: pitting himself against the servants of Sauron. And this beast was one of that brood, whether he knowingly acknowledged the lordship of Barad-dûr or not.

The time to attack was now, while the troll was still off balance from his leap. Aragorn gripped a blade in each hand. With a cry of _Elendil!_, he sprang from shelter.

The night seemed oddly bright, after the depths of the cave—light enough for Aragorn to see the pebbled skin of his malformed opponent, stubbled with coarse hairs that bristled like wires from each wart or nub. Its body was thick, almost toadlike—but Aragorn knew it would have none of a toad's softness. The mountain of flesh before him was solid muscle and bone.

A ridiculously small head turned to mark him as he charged. It seemed to rotate from the beast's shoulders, as there was no visible neck. The skull tapered considerably to its tip, out of which sprouted a knot of wiry hair. Huge ears bobbled at the sides of its pointed head, one of them fat and misshapen, as if overgrown by tumor. The eyes were sunk deep beneath a beetled brow; set too close together; they glimmered with an orange light. Its nose was a great, hooked blob, overhanging thin, leathery lips that were pursed in an almost comical expression as Aragorn sprang to meet it.

The troll's landing had thrown his weight forward, so his arms were crooked behind him in compensation. That left his belly momentarily unguarded. It swelled like the toad it resembled over the filthy breeches that were its only garment. That mound of exposed flesh would be Aragorn's first target.

Right, then left. The blade of Narsil slashed lengthwise across the brute's belly, followed by the blade of Arnor, crossing the wound from top to bottom. Aragorn hardly felt the stroke of Narsil's strike, so keen was that true-tempered steel. To his satisfaction, the blade of the vanquished North was not a poor companion for it. Many a blade could make no dent against troll skin, yet this one cleaved it indeed—though it took an effort. Aragorn delivered his double slash and leaped away, before the troll could react.

The squeal that followed pierced his ears. Aragorn rolled to evade the counterstroke. He was wise to do so, as he felt the brush of the troll's great paw whisper past him in the merest ghost of a miss. Aragorn regained his feet and made for the rear of the troll, which faced the embankment the monster had just jumped down.

"You must keep circling," Elladan had told Aragorn once. The son of his foster father had been surprised by a hill troll during a lone excursion through the Ettendales—one of the few living beings who could tell such a tale. "He is far stronger and larger than you, and will crush you if ever he can close. But he is not fast. Speed you must use, Estel. Keep him circling, so he cannot grab you."

Aragorn had not the speed of an Elf, nor the experience born of centuries of warfare. Yet such gifts and training as he had, he would use.

Aragorn sprang for the side of the embankment. So great was his momentum that he actually ran sideways upon it for two steps—long enough to slash the troll across his wide, hunched back. Narsil he directed towards the base of his enemy's spine, naked and hollow above the ragged breeks. The blade sank deep, and skated along bone. The troll jerked and started to spin towards him. A great elbow whirled towards his face. Aragorn jabbed it with the dagger, using the move both to ward off the blow, and to assist his leap to the uphill side of the embankment. Aragorn vaulted to safety and skipped back from the edge.

The troll came around. It was hip-high to the earthen wall, but its arms were unencumbered. Aragorn had barely time to fling himself backward before the seeking hand nearly grasped him; again, Aragorn felt the puff of air against his skin. He regained his feet and faced his enemy, blade wielded in either hand.

"Seed of Morgoth," he panted, "thy doom awaits."

The great grey arm shot forward, but Aragorn had judged its reach well, and the fat, calloused fingers closed on empty air, the tips of the cracked nails clicking against each other just inches from his leg. The troll's leathery lips drew back, revealing stained, jagged teeth that could either mangle or tear. It wheezed out a word, its breath reeking of spoiled meat. "Man… flesh."

It hopped, a move that extended its reach just enough for the fingertips to thump Aragorn's hip, and topple him. Hurriedly, Aragorn scrambled away, striving to put more distance between himself and his adversary, as it clambered up the embankment to pursue him. Its great iron hand groped after him. "_Come 'ere!_"

Aragorn danced backward. He was halfway to the woods. If he could lead the troll there, it might give the hobbits time to get away, farther down the cliff face. He could only hope that the troll would be unable to track them by scent, should they choose to do so. Sam would sense the opportunity, surely, and strike out find a safe haven for his master. What the others might choose to do, Aragorn had no way of knowing. But he must keep the troll hard after him, staying barely out of its reach, or it would lose interest in the difficult quarry and return to the cave. Aragorn hoped that he might be able to dodge it once he reached the eaves of the forest—and that his oversized opponent would not uproot the trees and attempt to crush him with them, once the forest was gained.

The troll lumbered after him, hunched forward and staggering a little. Aragorn was pleased. His attacks might not have incapacitated his foe, but they had hurt it. Aragorn fervently hoped that the blood loss would slow it down. He had lost the advantage of surprise and ground, so the odds were not in his favor. He was no match for the beast on the flat, and the troll must know it. Aragorn could hope only to stay out of its grip, until he found a fresh opportunity to attack. He faded towards the woods.

Suddenly the troll rushed him, gnarled hands extended. Aragorn backed hurriedly—the troll wasn't so hurt as he pretended! In his haste, Aragorn caught his heel on a stone. He tripped, then rolled frantically to the side, anticipating a strike. The troll's growl was loud in his ears. He lashed out blindly with Narsil, and heard a squeal. Something dragged at his boot, but he kicked free, aiming now to tumble away from the trees and closer to the cliff, forcing the troll to pivot. Elladan's advice resounded in his mind: _Keep him circling._

Aragorn regained his feet just in time to see the vague shape of a giant hand reaching towards him. He thrust with the dagger to ward it off, and slashed at the palm with Narsil. Both blades connected, but did not slow the troll's strike. For the beast was not reaching to grip this time, but to smack. The blow drove Aragorn's hands back towards his body, then the great palm slammed into his chest, and Aragorn was airborne. For a disorienting moment he was weightless. He landed on his back some yards away, feeling every sharp stone under the pelt of ground cover jab into his back. He writhed, unable to draw breath from the force of his fall. His stomach heaved, but he could draw no air into his lungs. Spots flashed before his eyes.

The mountainous shape of the troll charged, hands extended. Aragorn tucked the blades close to his body, and rolled. Thank the Valar. He'd scarcely completed one complete turn before the ground dropped away. He had rolled off the embankment near the cave. Normally Aragorn wouldn't have chosen to make an uncushioned, seven-foot drop—but it was preferable to being crushed in a troll's fist. He landed heavily, his arms jarred by the impact against his chest. He looked up to see an array of jagged nails reaching for him—but they stopped short, straining some three feet above him in the air.

Morgoth had imbued his creations with none of the grace of the Firstborn. The troll, for all his hideous strength, simply hadn't the flexibility to reach him.

Aragorn kicked against the embankment to propel himself away, even as a trunklike leg draped itself over the cliff. Still fighting for breath, Aragorn dragged himself to his feet, as the brute clambered after him. Aragorn now stood approximately where he'd engaged the troll upon first leaving the cave. His chest finally unlocked from its spasm, and he drew fiery draughts of air. Gratefully, Aragorn felt new vigor flow into his limbs, even as the growing shadows were purged from his mind. By then the troll was down again, and turning about to face him.

Aragorn charged. The troll, still off balance from its climb, cringed against the cliff to protect its back, warding him off with a hand. But Aragorn had no intention of closing. At the last moment he changed his course, aiming for a stone that protruded from the bank. He used it as a step and sprang up—now back on top of the embankment, leaving the troll below.

The beast bellowed its frustration. "_I will crush you like an egg!_" Suddenly, he stooped. Aragorn barely had time to register what was happening, before the troll straightened again—to sling a goodly stone at him. Aragorn dodged, but not quickly enough. The boulder caught him a glancing blow on the thigh. With a cry, Aragorn fell to earth.

"You are meat!" the troll roared, enraged beyond sense. "I shall sever your head with my teeth, and pour your spouting juices down my throat!" He heaved himself up the shallow wall he had just descended.

Aragorn took a moment to assess his injury. The muscle was bruised, but the bone was whole. The injury would slow him, however, and he'd barely had the speed to avoid the beast's attacks as it was. Aragorn watched the troll clamber gracelessly to its feet. Perhaps Aragorn could use his injury the way the troll had fooled him—pretend that he was more badly hurt than he was, and thereby lead the troll away.

It was worth a try. Aragorn got to his feet, but staggered, holding his damaged leg stiffly. It was easy to do, for unfortunately his injury was only too genuine. He took a step back, and nearly fell. That was no act; the battered limb had forgotten for a moment how to support his weight. Aragorn caught his balance, then held his blades ready.

The troll observed his prey's floundering with a sneer. It laughed, a grating sound like pebbles in a mud sluice. "Come, human. Fill my belly."

Aragorn limped back another step. Good; the leg was strengthening. Even more comforting was the fact that the troll had not charged again. _I am not the only one who is growing weaker,_ Aragorn thought with satisfaction. His earlier swordwork was starting to take its toll. Perhaps that accounted for the troll's increased bluster. Lacking his usual strength, he had resorted to jeers.

_He knows he is failing. I have only to outlast him. _Grimly, Aragorn backed towards the woods. This time, he was certain the troll would follow.

His theory was to remain untested. Even as he moved away, the troll howled and grabbed his back. With a growl, it spun towards the cave. Its head jerked suddenly, and it rubbed its face with a hand. "Maggots!" he roared. He raised his arm to ward off another invisible blow.

No, not invisible. Aragorn could see it now, faintly in the dark: stones. A series of stones flew at the troll from the below the embankment. There were too many for just one hobbit to be throwing them all. There must be two of them out of the cave at least. One of the rocks missed its target, hitting the cliff edge with a sharp crack.

"No!" Aragorn waved his hands to draw the troll's attention. "This way!" _Don't help me!_ he mentally screamed at his unseen assistants.

But it was too late. The hobbits had succeeded in their distraction. Ignoring Aragorn's cries, the troll was now focused on them. Hidden though they were from Aragorn by the earthen cliff, doubtless they were perfectly visible to the troll. He went after them now, his revenge on the Man postponed until he could put an end to these smaller (and doubtless sweeter) foes.

Aragorn sagged in despair. He doubted that he could survive another direct encounter with the troll, not in his current condition. But he was held by his sworn word.

_I am Aragorn son of Arathorn; and if by life or death I can save you, I will. _

Aragorn took a fresh grip on his blades, then started after the troll. His leg moved with difficulty over the uneven terrain. Aragorn prayed that the Valar would give him the strength to do what he must, and the courage to die well.


	5. Chapter 5

Frodo had never seen a Man fight before. That would have been an impressive enough sight on its own, but he didn't doubt that few had seen such a contest as he was forced to witness.

When Strider had leaped from the cave, Frodo's heart seized with fear. In retrospect, he wondered what he supposed the Man would do; wait in the cave, and fight a defensive battle, using what shelter the cave could give him? But Strider, it seemed, had other plans.

The Man had caught his enemy off guard, and scored two good strikes on the front and back of the beast before he vanished up the earthen cliff. Frodo listened to the battle that raged beyond his sight on the plateau above, his right hand fisted with anxiety. He was terrified. The troll was fully twice the Man's height, and many times his mass. Even the tall Man's strength seemed paltry indeed, when pitted against such a foe. Strider had engaged the troll with skill and grace, his initial blows artfully placed, and doubtless with a far heavier hand than the strongest hobbit could hope for. But for all that, he moved less speedily than a hobbit might. The observation gnawed at Frodo, and kept him on edge. He wondered if it was the Man's great, long limbs that slowed him down. The Man appeared faster than the troll, at any rate, and Frodo supposed that was all that mattered.

Pippin's breath beside him was rapid. "They're moving off, I think."

"Aye." Sam's head was cocked, a mere silhouette in the darkness. "He's trying to draw the troll away, seemingly."

"What do we do?" Merry clasped a stone, clenched and ready in his hand.

"If he gets that troll away, we run for it. That's what Strider would want us to do, or I'm a blockhead."

"But where would we run?" Frodo's heart pattered frantically at the thought of fleeing, unprotected, down the barren cliff face. Uncertainty of shelter aside, he felt far from capable of running, were the distance no greater than the length of Bag End. "We have no assurance that we might find another cave."

"Any such shelter as we find would be better than staying in a place we're known to be," Sam said reasonably. "With his skills, that Strider would find us easy, once the troll is led off."

Merry hissed, silencing him. "Listen!"

The troll's roars grew louder again. Pippin wailed, "They're coming closer!"

The next moment a dark shape plummeted over the earthen bank. It hit the ground before Frodo realized what he was seeing—Strider, arms curled against his chest, and his face screwed up in pain. For a moment he lay where he had fallen, as if stunned. An enormous hand groped after him, but thankfully fell short, defeated by the height of the cliff.

Merry sprang to his feet. "We've got to help him!"

Even as he spoke, Strider rolled farther away, then scrambled to his feet. He stood no more than a dozen feet away, fully in Frodo's line of sight. For all that a grey mist had troubled Frodo's vision during the day, he could distinguish the look on Strider's face, even through the veil of night. The Man was breathing in shuddering gasps; he seemed shaken, but there was no blood or injury that Frodo could see.

A giant, flat-footed limb intruded itself into his line of sight, as the troll eased itself down the cliff after its prey. At this range, Frodo clearly saw the black blood flowing down its back. A considerable amount had soaked into the ratty breeches that clung to the troll's squat middle.

"What's going on?" Pippin's voice sounded unnaturally high. Squashed against the wall as he was, he had the worst view.

"The troll is injured, Strider is not," Frodo summarized. "But he appears to be tiring."

"Anyone would, fighting a thing like that." Sam turned towards him. "Begging your pardon, Mr. Frodo, but we ought to do something to help him. I feel fair useless, perched up here like a bird in its nest, while our cat out there gets et up by a lion."

"But our 'cat' put us in the tree in the first place," said Frodo. "He wouldn't want us to go rushing into the lion's jaws."

The troll roared again, sounding more frightful than any lion Frodo could imagine. He bit his lip as Strider charged—but the Ranger deflected his course at the last moment, and propelled himself safely up the cliff. Frodo slumped, exhausted simply from the emotional drain of watching.

The troll raged in fury—and then the worst happened. The brute stooped and picked up a great stone, then hurled the boulder with terrifying force. From farther away, Strider cried out in pain. The troll, spouting threats, began to climb after him.

"That's it!" Merry sprang to his feet. "I won't stay here another minute, while that thing goes after Strider."

Dimly, Frodo saw Sam groping along the stone floor. "Take plenty of stones, Mr. Merry." He followed his own advice, hastily gathering up a handful to fill his pockets.

Pippin reached across Frodo and placed a hand on Sam's arm. Sam stopped, looking his way in confusion, though the dark made it difficult to read his expression.

"Stay, Sam," Pippin said. "Let me go."

Frodo gaped. He could hear how terrified Pippin was—he could smell the fear on him. His cry of "Pippin!" was cut off by Merry's calmer, but far more forceful, "No, Pip."

"_I_ shall help Merry," Pippin said, far too quickly. Frodo thought he must be holding his terror at bay by the slimmest of margins.

"Mr. Pippin," Sam began, "Mr. Frodo needs someone as can stay with him—"

"Which should be _you_, Sam," Pippin interrupted. "Merry, you know I'm right. Frodo needs someone who can guard him properly. And I… am the weakest one here."

_Except for me,_ Frodo thought bitterly. His friends would not be in such a pass, had he resisted the Black Riders' call to place the Ring on his finger two weeks ago. His injury had slowed them down, and put them all in greater danger each day, as he grew weaker and less able to travel. They might well die now, defending him from a troll that everyone but him would be hardy enough to outrun. The injustice of it grated against Frodo's soul.

Merry hesitated, obviously torn between his wish to protect Pippin (a wish Frodo fervently shared), and the good sense of leaving someone as capable as Sam to look after their injured companion—someone who could lower Frodo's crippled body to the cave floor when all was safely over.

"Merry," Frodo started to say, when the troll's cruel laughter interrupted him. They all held still to hear.

"Come, human," he taunted in a gravelly voice, from somewhere atop the embankment. "Fill my belly."

Merry scooted to the edge of the shelf. "Pippin's right, Sam. You stay." He sprang to the floor of the cave.

"Merry!" Frodo protested, but his friend ran to the door, peering out, not heeding him.

In front of Frodo, Sam grabbed Pippin's hand, still resting on his arm. Sam turned it over, and thrust his handful of rocks into it. "Keep behind Mr. Merry," he said. "I'll give you a hand back up, when the time comes."

Pippin's breath whooshed out. "Thank you, Sam." Before Frodo could react to it, a hasty kiss fell on his cheek. Then Pippin leaped into the dark, landing with a grunt, and hastened after Merry, who was already out the door.

Frodo was appalled. "Sam, how _could_ you?"

"He loves you, Mr. Frodo." Sam's voice was calm, just as if two of their closest acquaintance were not about to be eaten by something as big as Sam's smial. "I reckon this is his way of showing it. I won't be getting in the way of that." He fumbled at his waist. "Help get my scabbard off. I'll use the belt as a strap for to fetch Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin up quick. I've a feeling they'll need it right soon."

-0-0-0-

When Pippin had first spotted the troll loping after them in the last dying glimmer of daylight, he didn't think it was possible to be any more frightened. Yet it was. Every minute seemed to be more ghastly than the one before. He had been literally shaking with terror when the troll jumped down the embankment. Then Strider had gone after it, nearly stopping Pippin's heart—and then the Man had been injured. Strider could be ripped to shreds at any instant, and Pippin forced to listen or watch. It was too, too hideous.

Pippin would never be brave or strong. He knew that now. Those abilities were beyond him. Merry had kept his head, and Sam. Even Frodo, for all his obvious horror and worsening wound, could still think.

Which was exactly why Pippin had to follow Merry. He _couldn't_ be brave; that much was clear. What he _could_ do was give Frodo a chance. Frodo would get much farther with Sam than with anyone else. There was no need to discuss it; it had been plain since the journey began, and grew more apparent with every passing day. Merry himself had accepted it. That is why he and Pippin were running along the base of the earthen wall in a crouch, while Sam was back in the cave with their cousin. If Frodo was to have a chance of winning through to Rivendell, Sam would be the one who would give it to him.

Merry plucked Pippin's sleeve, and nodded away from the cliff. He backed away from the wall, looking up. Pippin swallowed, and went with him. He felt like a fish about to be speared in a very shallow pool.

The troll was so tall its head came immediately into view, the tuft of hair on its pointed head seeming to scrape the waxing stars. Still Merry drew back from the protective bank, until the troll's waist was in view.

"Aim for its lower back," Merry whispered. "I saw blood there earlier."

Pippin could see no blood now. All he could see clearly was the silhouette of the troll against the lighter darkness of the sky. But that gave him enough to go on. The waist would be in the middle. He gripped his stone, arm cocked. His second throw was ready in his hand. More stones bulged in his pockets; he had no doubt that Merry was similarly armed.

The troll took a step away from them, towards the forest. "Now," Merry breathed.

Pippin threw as hard as he could. Immediately he grasped his next stone, and flung it with all his might towards the ungainly shadow.

Something hit. The troll roared, arching its back and howling. Pippin dug frantically for the stones in his pocket, and let fly another round. Feverishly he dug and threw, dug and threw, racing through his stash. As soon as he grasped a rock, he hurled it, sometimes higher, sometimes lower. Beside him, Merry was flinging his own supply of stones in that same, uncanny silence.

No good. The troll was not such a dolt that it could not detect the source of the rock throwing. Its shape turned towards the embankment. In the hollows below its jutting brows, Pippin saw a fell orange gleam. "Maggots!" he roared.

Merry flung his last stone, then grabbed Pippin's arm. "Time to go, Pip," he said—as if they'd done nothing more serious than scare a flock of sheep across a field.

Pippin thought he had never run so fast—until he heard the crash of the troll's feet, almost in his ear, as he leapt down the embankment. Pippin then discovered that he could run faster still. He sprinted into the black mouth of the cave, and smacked full into the rear wall before he could stop. He bounced backwards a step, rubbing his hurt chest.

Someone was yelling at him, shouting orders, but Pippin didn't understand. Merry was with him. He recognized the touch even in the dark, as Merry grabbed his arm and pressed something flat and leathery into his palm. "Hang on!" he yelled.

Pippin grasped the strap reflexively. It was yanked sharply upward, dragging his arm up with it. The next moment, Pippin felt himself lifted into the air. He was being pulled up the side of the wall. Merry boosted him from below. A hand grasped his elbow, hauling him onto the shelf. He tumbled into his rescuer—Frodo, by the sound of the grunt he made when Pippin toppled over him.

Whatever meager light existed in the cave was suddenly snuffed out. A massive body jammed into the opening, making the walls shake. A horrible stench filled the chamber, stifling Pippin's breath. The shriek of rage that followed nearly shattered his eardrums. All Pippin could think was, _Merry!_ Merry was still on the cave floor, within easy reach of the troll. He wouldn't have had time to climb up.

Sam was shouting, but in Pippin's panic, he couldn't make out the words. Frodo had shoved Pippin off his lap, but Pippin could feel his upper body twisting beside him. Frodo must be pelting the thing with stones, using his one good hand.

Well, Pippin had two good hands, and it was time he used them. He scrambled to his feet, just as the troll screamed again. Pippin hunched down. The volume alone was almost enough to knock him down—but the stink! Like a hundred middens, left to broil in the sun with a stack of dead carcasses. Pippin opened his mouth to breathe. He felt like he was suffocating.

The only illumination came from the gap between the troll's legs. In that dim light, Pippin saw what filled him with horror: Sam's arms, stretched over the edge of the shelf, so far that he was nearly pulled off the brink. From his outstretched hands, the leather strap was pulled tight, as the troll dragged it towards him with an enormous hand.

Pippin suddenly understood why Sam refused to let go. The troll wasn't pulling the _strap_, but what was _attached_ to the strap. The giant hand must have closed upon Merry, as Sam was trying to pull him to safety.

Pippin didn't think. Jerking his dagger free, he turned it to an overhand cut position. Taking a running step, he launched himself from the shelf, aiming for the black ridge that marked the troll's arm. He struck with all the weight of his body behind it. The steel sank in, before the blade was ripped from Pippin's hand. The troll's arm jerked, slapping Pippin aside like a troublesome moth. _I'm flying,_ he thought, before he hit the side of the cave, and everything went dark.


	6. Chapter 6

Merry's mouth was dry. The troll was very close behind them; there might not be time to climb onto the shelf. He felt sick with dread as he plunged into the cave.

Almost instantly, he stumbled into Pippin, invisible in the dark. He put out a hand to steady him, even as Sam yelled, "I've lowered a strap for ye. Grab it!"

Miraculously, Merry's sweeping hand found the strap, and here was Pippin, solid in his other hand. Merry pushed the strap into his cousin's palm. "Hang on!"

Pippin almost instantly rose, and Merry got behind him to give him a lift. He'd just heard Pippin scuffle over the edge, when the cave went black, like someone closing the flap on a tent. A great bellow deafened him, and he jumped straight into the wall—like a hare startled into the side of a fence, knowing he couldn't push through, but trying anyway.

"I've lowered the strap!" Sam yelled, his words ringing in Merry's punished ears. "Reach for it!"

Merry groped up the wall. He could feel the troll's hot breath humid on the back of his neck, puffing into his hair. He swept his hands over the rock face frantically. There it was! He closed his hands upon the belt, just as a great leathery fist closed about his body.

Merry's breath left instantly, forced out by the crushing grip. He could feel his ribs creaking. His toes lifted away from the floor, but he could feel nothing of his arms or legs, nothing but the gruesome strength of a fist closing, closing, so it seemed all his blood was squeezed up into his head, to bulge out his eyes and pound in his temples in spikes of pain that matched his frantically beating pulse, until he thought his head must burst.

Suddenly the fist flew open. The blessed rush of air was followed by the smack of a hard surface. Sparks flared behind Merry's sightless eyes. Far away, there was shouting and urgent calls and something like a great beast screaming. Merry lay as he had fallen, cheek pressed against cold stone. It seemed as if he was spinning, spinning. And the world spun with him.

-0-0-0-

Sam thought his heart might trip over itself, he was that scared. He'd begun to think, after they'd hoisted Mr. Pippin up so handily, that they might actually make it. Then that troll had come barging in, blocking Sam's light. Mr. Merry must be right up against the wall where Sam couldn't see him, unless he were to lean right over—and that would just bring him down atop of Mr. Merry, if he _did_ grab the strap. So Sam was forced to kneel at the brink with his legs braced wide, and holler and hope.

He never did feel Mr. Merry take the strap, but he could feel it rising, rising, with the troll's closed fist. He might have thought the troll had grabbed the strap on purpose, were it not for the two hairy feet sticking out below, barely visible in the gleam of light near the floor. Mr. Merry was trapped inside that grip. Worse, the strap was tightening, as the troll drew back his arm. Sam pulled in the opposite direction, but doubted if the troll even noticed the drag. Unless Sam let go of his end right quick, he'd pulled off the ledge.

Before Sam could decide his course either way, Mr. Pippin settled the matter—by jumping on the troll's arm. Not even Mr. Frodo had seen that coming, to judge by his yell. _That_ got Mr. Merry loose, Sam had to agree, but the sound of two bodies hitting the floor, without so much as a yip, made his blood run cold. He wondered if he'd find any living hobbits down there, if ever he and Mr. Frodo had a chance to climb down when this nightmare was over.

Mr. Frodo was flinging stones for all he was worth. "_Pippin!_" he yelled desperately. "_Merry!_"

Sam longed to calm him, but he reckoned that any advice along the lines of, "Now, don't go straining your shoulder, Mr. Frodo," would sound so far beyond daft that Sam didn't dare to utter it, much as he worried that Mr. Frodo might do himself a harm from his actions. There'd be time to worry over that once they got past this here troll that was dead set upon doing 'em harm and to spare, not to mention eating whatever stopped fighting long enough to stand still.

Sam scooted towards Mr. Frodo, hands extended in the gloom. He found his master right enough, and grabbed him about the shoulders, feeling the heave of his body as Mr. Frodo threw another stone. Sam began pulling Mr. Frodo towards the rear of the cave.

"No, Sam!" Mr. Frodo writhed in Sam's grip.

Careful of the hurt shoulder, Sam held tight. "We've got to get out of reach," he said in his master's ear.

"But Pippin, and Merry—"

"There's plenty of stones to chuck right here," Sam released his hold, now that he had dragged Mr. Frodo half a dozen feet farther from the edge. He knew there were stones a-plenty; he could feel himself tripping over them with every step.

Mr. Frodo instantly plucked one up and hurled it. Stooping, Sam followed his lead. They could hardly miss, even in the dark. The shrieks of the troll were enough to guide them, along with the glimmer of light from the entrance.

"They'll be eaten, Sam." Mr. Frodo's words tore Sam's heart, the tears in his voice were so plain to hear. "Merry and Pippin—he'll swallow them both."

Sam opened his mouth to offer what was sure to be meaningless encouragement, when the loudest scream yet struck his ears with a physical pain. The next moment, the mouth of the cave was unblocked. Sam strained his eyes to see. The troll was still there, but he had fallen to his knees, facing out the cave mouth. Though the cave still echoed from that last horrendous screech, Sam could hear, faintly outside, a new battle cry: "_Elendil!_"

Sam closed his eyes in gratitude. Strider had come. Sam sank to his knees, weak with relief, and prayed that the Ranger wasn't as bad hurt as they had supposed.

-0-0-0-

The troll's one saving grace, Aragorn reflected, was that it was appallingly stupid. How else could it forget about the armed human warrior at its back, while it pursued the helpless little hobbits for tossing their irritating but essentially harmless stones?

However, the brute's stupidity gave Aragorn the opportunity he needed. With the troll straining to cram his meaty shoulders into the narrow gap of the cave mouth, Aragorn was able to approach its vulnerable backside undetected.

_If he closes with me, he will kill me,_ Aragorn thought. It was up to Narsil now. Even such a deadly blade as this would be unable to strike a killing blow through the layers of hide and muscle that clothed the troll's broad, scabby back—not with the blade broken a foot from the hilt as it was. But the keen-cutting edge would allow Aragorn to cripple the brute. That was his best chance of keeping the troll from closing. He could no longer fight by slashing and leaping away; his injury would not permit it. He had to risk the more difficult strike.

From a dozen feet off, Aragorn flexed his hurt leg. He put his full weight on it to test it, and then darted in. His target was the tendon that ran up the back of the troll's great heel.

Narsil sliced it like butter. The taut sinew, cut loose from its mooring, bunched suddenly at the troll's calf. The leg collapsed, bringing the troll down on its knee. Its shriek of agony filled the cave.

Aragorn immediately struck towards the second leg, intending to inflict the same wound. "Elendil!" he cried. He thrust at the ankle—just as the troll's good leg kicked out.

Aragorn's blow went awry, slicing the calf without crippling the leg. Worse, the troll's foot slammed into Aragorn's legs, knocking him back and rolling him across the bumpy turf. Aragorn came to rest on his belly. He was stunned and battered, but not incapacitated. Blearily, he stirred his legs. They moved on command; that would have to suffice for now. He pushed himself up, grateful for the use of his arms, and the blades still firm in each grip. As he rose, something wet trickled down his forehead.

The troll had turned to face him. Propelled by its good leg, it lurched forward. Aragorn shrank back when the troll moved to grab him, but his bruised leg buckled under the strain. He went down on one knee. The troll heaved itself forward to close the gap. Unable to evade him, Aragorn raised his blades as the troll seized him about the chest. Its fat fingers pinned the arm with Narsil to his side, though Aragorn wrenched the other arm free. With a greedy snarl, the brute lifted him towards its slavering jaws.

_I shall sever your head with my teeth, and pour your spouting juices down my throat!_ the troll had cried. Aragorn was moments away from that fate. The mouth gaped. Breath hot as an Umbar wind, foul as sun-baked carrion, bathed his face in a repulsive cloud. The teeth closed in.

With all his strength, Aragorn swung the dagger of Arnor into the creature's mouth. His strike punched through the floor of the troll's mouth and pierced its lower jaw. Aragorn had angled the blow such that the guard caught between the front teeth, so that the upright haft would prevent the creature from closing his jaws.

With an anguished squeal, the troll hurled Aragorn down. He hit the ground hard enough to see stars. The earth revolved beneath him. Dimly he heard a metallic clatter, and knew that the troll had pulled the dagger free. Too small for a troll's grip, he had tossed the tiny blade away. Dazed, Aragorn watched through slitted lids as the looming presence of the troll blocked out the emerging stars. The troll leant over him, cautiously. The reek of its breath engulfed him, dampening his skin with noxious fumes. Aragorn's crushed chest struggled for breath, but he otherwise lay still. The hovering face bled heat onto the cool night air. The small eyes blinked, checking its prey for signs of resistance. Satisfied that his foe was momentarily helpless, the face descended, the jaws opening once more.

Aragorn struck. Uncoiling all the strength and speed he had left, he drove Narsil into the juncture of the troll's jaw and throat.

The troll lurched back. For a moment it looked startled. Then it gagged; a great gout of blood erupted from its mouth. Noisome liquid, black and thick, gushed from the wound, spattering the turf and spraying Aragorn's face. The troll tried to howl, but the blood burbled in its throat, smothering the sound. The orange gleam in the tiny eyes faded, went white. Slowly, the body tipped forward. With a moist sigh, the troll collapsed onto Aragorn's prostrate body.

The dead weight drove any remaining air from Aragorn's lungs. His ears roared and his limbs went numb. The night leaked away, as his stubborn consciousness drifted off.


	7. Chapter 7

The sudden change in the tenor of the troll's screams, from enraged to agonized, startled Frodo. The next moment the cause of the change was apparent, as a cry of "Elendil!" sounded from outside the cave.

Frodo froze, heart pounding, hardly daring to hope. Strider had come. Yet what could one Man—and an injured Man, at that—do against anything so _big_? Even so, their situation _must_ be improved, with the human warrior able to strike a blow in their defense.

The illumination grew marginally brighter, as the troll backed its huge mass out of the cave, hobbling on one leg to face his attacker. As soon as he moved away, Frodo shuffled on his knees and good arm towards the brink of the ledge. "Merry! Pippin!" His thin cries bounced off the stone walls.

Frodo listened frantically, mouth dry. Only silence answered him.

Pippin and Merry were Frodo's kin. It was his responsibility to rescue them, if rescue were possible—if they were alive. With himself already wounded, and Sam unable to climb up and down from the high ledge on his own, the attempt would prove difficult at best. Yet Frodo must try.

A hand fell upon his shoulder, making him jump. "You should stay right back," Sam advised, almost in his ear. "That troll could come back at any minute."

"Yes, and if Merry and Pippin are still alive, he would certainly finish them then, wouldn't he?"

The troll let out a hideous shriek. Frodo looked towards the door, in time to hear the solid thud of something—or someone—hitting the earth.

Frodo leaned forward, peering out. The troll loomed just outside the cave entrance, with his back towards them. That meant that the body hitting the ground just now could only be Strider, if the troll was still upright. Did that scream mark Strider's final blow, before the troll finished him?

Anxiously, Frodo directed his gaze to the floor of the cave. There! Faintly he could discern a body below him. Weak light hit a pair of heels that faced the doorway, and dimly limned the tumbled shape of a cloak. Frodo leant forward, and whispered frantically, "_Merry!_"

A groan from the shape drifted upward. Relief mixed with anxiety. Frodo scooted about, to hang his feet over the edge. "Lower me down, Sam. I've got to bring him up."

"And how do you expect to do that?" Sam used his ironic voice—the one that meant he was going to be difficult.

"I'll tie the strap round his arm, and you can pull him up."

"And how am I supposed to get _you_ back up, once you're down there?"

"Oh, bother getting me up! I've got to find Pippin. He's—"

The troll made some kind of strange, strangled noise that it hadn't made before. Frodo's attention snapped to the cave entrance. Outside, the troll sagged, then slowly toppled forward. It gurgled as the air left it, then grew still.

Frodo stared in amazement. Beside him, Sam said, "Maybe we won't need to pull Mr. Merry up the ledge after all."

Frodo's shock gave way to joy. "He did it." He seized Sam's sleeve. "He did it! Strider killed the troll!" Not waiting for Sam's reply, Frodo cupped his good hand to his mouth. "Strider! Hoy, Strider! Hurrah!"

No response greeted his shout. The troll lay unmoving before him. Nothing else made a sound.

Frodo grew still. Worry tore at him afresh. Sam said, "You think maybe they kilt each other?"

Frodo hastily turned towards Sam. "Where's that belt? I've got to get down there."

"Right here. Hold still, I'm making a loop."

"Blast it, Sam, I don't need a loop. Just give me an end, and lower me down!"

"No, sir." Sam continued fiddling invisibly in the dark. "I'll not have you slip when a simple noose will prevent it. Here, give me your right hand."

Frodo thrust it in his direction. He felt Sam slip a leather loop over his hand, that settled onto his wrist like a cuff.

"There." Sam pulled the cuff snug. "Now you won't fall. I'll lower you as far as might be, then let the strap take you."

"All right." For all his eagerness to get down, Frodo was none too keen about the shadowy drop to the floor. His left shoulder was already icy, and ached from the jolting it had endured earlier during Aragorn's run. A seven-foot drop might be bearable were he in good health, but he'd prefer to minimize any unnecessary strain if he could help it.

Sam lay flat on his belly, to make the belt reach as far as possible. He gripped Frodo's good arm, and helped steady him as Frodo eased over the edge. Frodo held onto Sam's grip for as long as possible. When both their arms were fully extended, Sam released him. Frodo had an awkward moment as he drifted away from the wall, his weight fully suspended by the cuff around his wrist. Then he swung back, and got his feet against the wall. This maneuver was not good for his injury; it felt like needles jabbing into his shoulder. Frodo gritted his teeth, secure that Sam could not see his discomfort in the darkness. His toes slid along the wall. The surface was rough, but not so much that Frodo could find a proper foothold.

"That's all, sir."

Frodo, preoccupied with trying not to twirl like a toy on a string, said, "What's all?"

"That's the length of the belt. That's as far as I can lower you."

Frodo looked down. Merry was almost directly below him. The floor couldn't be more than another two feet away. "All right. I'm ready. Let go."

Frodo dropped. The floor smacked into his feet even sooner than he had expected, and he fell over. That jarred his shoulder again, sending a knife of pain through his chest. Frodo slowly sat up, reaching for his shoulder with a hiss.

As if in response, a groan drifted up from his elbow. Frodo ignored his wound for the present, turning quickly towards the sound. "Merry? Merry, can you hear me?"

A heavy thump at his side startled him. In a moment, a pair of hands found him. They trailed down his arm, and started loosening the cuff from his wrist. "Mr. Frodo? Are you all right?"

"Fine, Sam." Freed from the belt, Frodo reached out along the floor. Almost instantly his hand found a warm cloak. When the body stirred beneath his touch, Frodo could have wept for joy. "Merry, it's Frodo. It's over. You're safe."

Merry groaned, and cloth rustled on stone. In the gloom, Frodo could see Merry's hands go to his head, as he curled into a ball on his side.

Frodo rubbed a hand soothingly over his cousin's shoulder. "Merry? Can you speak?"

From between Merry's elbows came a muffled but emphatic, "_Bugger,_ that hurts!"

Frodo smiled weakly, then looked towards where he knew Sam to be standing. "Make a light, will you, Sam?" He turned back to his cousin. "Rest easy, Merry. I'll be back in a moment."

Merry muttered groggily, "Pippin?"

"We're finding him," said Frodo, as Sam swung his pack to the floor near his feet.

Merry, with an alarmed cry, tried to sit up—then hissed and collapsed again to the floor, his arms now hugging his chest.

"Just lie there," said Frodo firmly. "We must see how badly you're hurt."

Merry panted against the pain. "It's not… bad," he gasped.

"So I see. Keep still, now. I must find Pippin."

Sam was rummaging through his pack. Leaving him to it, Frodo scooted towards the stone wall of the ledge. Bracing himself against it, he pushed himself upright. He was weak and wobbly, but he could manage it. Cautiously, he shuffled towards the wall of the cave. "Pippin? Pip? Speak to me, Pipsqueak. I know you're in here."

His toes brushed something soft. Bracing against the shelf face for balance, Frodo sank to his knees. A warm tumble of clothing lay heaped in the corner. Pippin's body was lying all anyhow. Frodo found an arm, a leg—how had Pippin fallen? His only consolation was that the body was warm, and appeared to be breathing.

A light flared, dimmed, then grew. Sam had lit a candle. In the waxing glow, Frodo could see Pippin, tossed into the corner like a rag doll. The uneven jumble of stones on which he lay had splayed his limbs in ridiculous positions. His face was pale, but his cloak and pack seemed to have protected him somewhat from the rocks upon which he'd fallen, as well as Strider's big pack, propped against the wall. Nothing was bleeding, as far as Frodo could see.

"Pippin? Pip?" Frodo straightened the limbs one by one, careful of breaks. Everything seemed to move as it should. "Come on, Pip. Speak to me."

He shifted his arm behind Pippin's shoulders, attempting to raise him. As he did so, his fingers encountered something warm and wet at the base of his skull. Frodo's heart fluttered. He shouted, "_Sam?_"

"Coming!" Sam sprang upright, from where he had been positioning the candle on the cave floor in a little puddle of wax. He hurried towards Frodo.

"Help me get him up," Frodo pleaded. "He's bleeding."

Sam crouched, then gathered Pippin into his arms like a baby. "Anything broken?"

"Not that I could tell." Frodo swallowed. "There's blood all down his neck."

Near the candle, Merry was stirring. He winced, pushing himself up on one arm. "Where is he hurt?"

"His head, it seems." Sam lifted the young hobbit with a grunt, then backed away from the wall before turning awkwardly about. Merry snatched the blanket off Sam's pack, which was closest at hand. Grimacing from the movement, Merry shook out the blanket and laid it flat. By the time Frodo had struggled once again to his feet and got himself turned around, Merry had removed Pippin's pack and cloak, and Sam was settling Pippin carefully onto the blanket. Hunched over from pain, Frodo shuffled towards them, as quickly as he could manage. If only he weren't so bloody useless!

Merry spread Pippin's cloak over him for warmth, while Sam tipped Pippin's head towards the light. "There's the cut, you see?"

"Oh, Pippin!" Wincing, Merry shrugged off his own pack, then painfully dragged it round to open it.

Frodo walked past him, heading for the entrance. Already his eyes had grown accustomed to the candlelight. He could see nothing outside the door but the huge feet of the troll, propped like two overturned tables a couple of paces beyond the threshold. The candle's flame painted the dirty, callused soles with a dull glow.

"Where are you going?" Merry cried, flapping open a kerchief that he doubtless intended for a bandage.

"Strider," Frodo answered. "I must see what's happened to him."

Instantly, Sam was at his side. "I'll do it. You tend to Mr. Pippin."

Frodo glanced behind him. Merry had doused the kerchief with water from his flask, and was dabbing at Pippin's curls, his face grim. "Merry has things in hand," he told Sam softly. "But Strider has saved all our lives. I must see what's become of him."

Sam's unhappy look told Frodo all too clearly Sam's opinion on the matter. _They kilt each other, _Sam had speculated. Well, that might be the case. But Frodo owed it to his strange, new friend to find out. The idea that Strider might be dead grieved Frodo to an extent that surprised him. He didn't know how it had happened, or when, but the tall, grim Man had become very dear to him. It would be the height of injustice if he died now, after all his adventures, while attempting to protect a hobbit that was too foolish to look after himself.

The night seemed blinding after the candlelight in the cave. Even so, Frodo could easily follow the body of the troll, bulking up like a new burrow along his right side. Sam followed, half a pace behind. As Frodo moved farther from the cave, his night vision gradually returned to him. There was the head of the troll, resting in a great, irregular blot that stained the light turf. It was undoubtedly blood. Yet where was Strider?

"Save us," Sam whispered. He jogged forward, around the blot, and then knelt at the peak of it. All at once Frodo realized what he was seeing. Part of that blot was the Ranger, dressed in his dark clothes. He was pinned from the chest down beneath the head of the troll.

Frodo hurried forward, careful to avoid the grim pool. Sam looked up, his face pale in the darkness, but his expression impossible to read. "He's breathing. Not much, but he ain't dead yet."

Awkwardly, Frodo knelt beside Sam. The troll's stench was overpowering. Its blood reeked of things that had been long dead, coupled with an acidic tinge, like vomit. It made Frodo's gorge rise, to be so close to it.

"Watch your hands!" Sam cried, as Frodo reached for Strider's head. "He's covered in the stuff, and it ain't clean. I feel it burning my skin."

"We must get him out of it!" Frodo groped frantically for a handkerchief. "Sam, see if you can find something to use as a lever. We must shift this troll. It's suffocating him."

"Right you are, Mr. Frodo!" Sam sprang to his feet and raced towards the woods, going at a respectable pace, considering the darkness.

Frodo leant over the Ranger. He wiped the Man's face with the kerchief, trying to get the noxious blood off. Under the starlight, Frodo could make out Strider's pale forehead, and his closed eyes. The rest of his face was spattered with the black ichor of the troll. Frodo hoped that the Man's whiskers had provided some meager protection for his skin.

"Strider?" Frodo blotted the Ranger's face as best he could, trying to rouse him with voice and touch. "Strider." The Man didn't move. Frodo wished he had some water. But his pack had been hitched to Bill, who must be miles away by now. Frodo moved the kerchief lower, to clean Strider's throat. "Strider, wake up." Suddenly Frodo recalled Gandalf's letter. Bending lower, he said softly into the Man's ear, "Aragorn."

The Man groaned. Encouraged, Frodo continued to clean his face, brushing the cloth over his skin soothingly. "Aragorn, you've done it. You've saved us all." He set the foul cloth aside, and placed his hand across the Man's brow. The skin on his fingers itched from the troll blood that had seeped through the kerchief. Frodo wished he could wash it off the Man's face. Who knew what damage it was doing to his skin? Frodo stroked his friend's forehead gently. "Aragorn, come back."

The Man did not move, but his breathing seemed to grow a little easier. It was a wonder that he could breathe at all. The troll's head, though disproportionately small for its body, probably weighed as much as two hobbits, just by itself. There was the additional weight of its huge shoulder, but fortunately this lay mostly against the Ranger's legs.

"Frodo?"

Frodo jumped. A shadow stood between him and the cave, black against the dim illumination of the entrance. The cloaked form swayed slightly.

"Merry! You should not be out here."

"I came to see if you were all right."

Frodo hesitated momentarily. "I'm no worse than I was before. Are _you_ all right?"

"I'll live." Merry picked his way closer. From his hesitant movements, he clearly hadn't gained his night vision yet. He nodded at the Ranger. "Is he...?"

"Aragorn's alive, thankfully. Sam has gone to find a lever for us to free him. How's Pippin?"

"Unconscious. He took quite a knock to the head. What happened?"

"When the troll grabbed hold of you, Pippin drew his dagger and leapt onto its arm. He struck well, to judge by the scream that followed." Frodo gave Merry a weak smile. "He's the reason you're still alive."

Merry wobbled. "Mercy."

"To pay him for his trouble, the troll smacked him into the wall." Frodo's attention returned to the injured Man. "Have you your flask?"

"It's inside, next to Pippin."

"Would you bring it? I must get this poison off him." As Merry started away, Frodo called, "And bring a light, if you would."

"Right." Merry lifted a hand, and continued towards the entrance. Frodo watched him with increasing anxiety. His cousin weaved as he walked. At least Merry was standing, which was more than most of the party could do.

Frodo turned back to the Ranger, and gently stroked his cheek. "Stay with us, Aragorn. Please don't leave us now."


	8. Chapter 8

Merry returned from dark dreams to the gentle voice of his dearest friend, and a monstrous, splitting headache. It hurt enough that he truly thought he might be sick. He curled into a ball, feeling his ribs grate as he moved. He held his head, and cursed.

Frodo sounded much like his old self, calm and decisive, as he bade Sam to make a light. "Rest easy, Merry," he said. "I'll be back in a moment."

Only one member of the party remained unaccounted for. With his eyes still shut tight, Merry forced himself to ask, "Pippin?"

"We're finding him," came Frodo's insufficient answer.

Merry felt such a rush of adrenalin that he almost—_almost_—sat up. The stabbing pains all along his rib cage quickly disabused him of _that_ notion. He collapsed to the floor. For a moment he thought he might vomit after all; his mouth watered, and the area beneath his tongue felt thick.

"Just stay there," Frodo instructed. "We must see how badly you're hurt."

Merry lay still, panting. "It's not… bad." Oh, it hurt to breathe, and speaking was worse. Merry hugged himself, willing the spasm to pass.

"So I see," said Frodo dryly. "Keep still, now. I must find Pippin."

Merry had no choice but to let him. Slowly, the stabbing pains subsided and the nausea receded. Beside him, Sam found flint and candle, and set about making a light. Merry lay in the dark, following Sam and Frodo's progress by sound.

To his relief, Frodo soon located Pippin. Their impetuous cousin was alive, to judge by Frodo's remarks, though apparently unconscious. Sam got the candle going, and tipped it to drip some wax onto the cave floor, to form a base for it. Beyond the flame's glow, Merry saw Frodo, bent over a huddle of cloak and one protruding foot in the corner, touching carefully. When Frodo cried, "Sam!", Merry's heart leaped into his throat.

"Coming!" Sam sprang up from his newly placed candle. In two steps, he had reached Frodo's side.

"Help me get him up," Frodo said. "He's bleeding."

Heart pattering like a hare's, Merry collected his limbs so that he could push himself upright. He moved carefully this time, to prevent… complications. Bracing himself with one arm, he blinked away the spots that swirled before his eyes. Across the cave, Frodo and Sam were discussing Pippin's condition. All that penetrated was Frodo's remark about blood. Through the haze of pain, Merry managed to ask, "Where is he hurt?"

Sam answered. "His head, it seems." While Sam gathered the young hobbit into his arms, Merry looked about. Sam's blanket was near at hand, tied to the back of his pack. Balancing himself, Merry yanked the lacings free, then shook it out the best he could, mindful of his head and ribs. He spread it across the cave floor just in time for Sam to return, doubling the blanket where Pippin's head must rest.

"Wait." Merry eased himself to his knees. "Let me get his pack off."

Sam went down on one knee to make it easier for him. Pippin's limbs swung loosely as Merry eased off one strap, then the other. The drag of Pippin's pack sent a spike of pain through Merry's chest; he dropped it hastily to the floor. He then undid the clasp of Pippin's cloak, and gathered it out of the way. "All set."

Sam lowered Pippin onto the blanket. In the candlelight, the young Took's face looked waxy, unreal. He appeared to be deeply unconscious. Merry spread the cloak over him like a blanket, while Sam gently turned his cousin's head. The back of Pippin's skull was a mass of clotted blood. Merry winced.

Sam bent close, and parted the matted curls. "There's the cut, you see?"

Merry did indeed see. The cut rested upon an enormous egg at the back of Pippin's head. The pack had protected his back, which meant that Pippin's head had taken the brunt of whatever blow had felled him. Blood had gushed from the wound, soaking his hair and collar. Merry groaned, "Oh, Pippin!"

While Sam carefully examined the wound, Merry eased off his own pack. He could actually hear his ribs crackling as he moved; he'd be lucky if some of them weren't broken. He shifted the pack within reach, and worked the lacings with trembling hands. Merry hadn't much in the way of medical supplies; some cloths that could be used for bandages, and some balm to prevent infection, not much else. Well, such as he had, he would use.

He was shaking out a kerchief when Frodo shuffled past him, eyes focused on the door. He continued by without stopping.

"Where are you going?" Merry cried, then regretted his outburst at the flash of pain.

"Strider." Frodo's soft voice brought guilt crashing down on Merry's head. There was one more in their party, as yet unaccounted for. Much as Merry wanted to believe that his injury was at fault, he knew that he wasn't that shaken. In his worry over Pippin, he had managed to forget about the person who had likely saved all of their lives.

Sam sprang to his feet, to exchange soft words with Frodo near the door. Merry turned back towards Pippin. At least he could help out here. That would free Frodo and Sam to find Strider, and help him if they could—if he was alive to help. Merry wasn't hopeful. There hadn't been a sound from outside the cave since he'd come around. If Strider was alive, wouldn't they have heard something from him by now?

Grimly, Merry doused the cloth with water from the flask. Bending, he dabbed cautiously at Pippin's wound, clearing away the grit. The blood flowed freely; all too soon, the handkerchief was soaked. Merry fetched another. When that, too, was soiled, he rinsed them and wrung them out. While so doing, he noticed that the entrance was empty. Frodo and Sam had vanished into the night.

Merry turned back towards Pippin, placing the damp cloth against his wound. "I reckon you never counted on this," he said softly. "Trolls and Black Riders, and being eaten by a tree." He pressed firmly to staunch the flow of blood. "We never imagined any of it—did we, Pip?—back when we and Fatty formed our conspiracy."

The blood flow appeared to be slackening. Merry fetched the balm, opening it one-handed as he continued to apply pressure. He dipped the second cloth into the jar. The balm smelled tart and pungent—wholesome. Merry had no idea what was in it, but the healer at Brandy Hall used it, and that was good enough for Merry.

"Yes, Pippin, we've seen some things." He switched handkerchiefs, pressing the one with the balm to the cut. "Just think of it. One evening we're trapped in a wight's barrow, and the next we're in Bree, surrounded by those tall Men, and their taller houses made of wood. I thought Sam was going to have a fit, his eyes were so big. He wasn't too happy about Strider, either."

The bleeding had definitely slowed. Merry searched for yet another cloth, which he carefully wound around Pippin's head. He knotted the bandage over Pippin's forehead to secure it, then started to undo the young hobbit's collar. Who knew how battered his cousin was, beneath his clothes? "But that worked out for the best. That is, it did for us. I'll never feel right about it, if it turns out that Strider died to save us."

Merry glanced at the door. Frodo and Sam weren't back yet. Perhaps that was a hopeful sign; if Strider were dead, wouldn't they be inside again by now?

Merry shook his head, refusing to speculate. He finished unbuttoning Pippin's shirt, then pushed the cloth aside. Gingerly, he ran his hands over Pippin's chest, testing his ribs and belly for tenderness, and as far around back as he could reach. Nothing seemed to make an impression on his young cousin, and he felt no broken bones. Merry covered Pippin back up, then ran his hands along his arms and legs, gently rotating each wrist and ankle. In the end, Merry concluded that Frodo's first impression had been correct; Pippin's bones were whole. It was only his head that was injured.

Only his head. Merry scooted up to Pippin's face, then peeled back an eyelid. The eye was rolled slightly back, but the pupil was visible. Merry placed his hand over the eye, blocking the light, then moved it aside to let the candlelight in. The pupil swelled in the dark, and contracted in the light. Merry had heard that that was an encouraging sign. He repeated the experiment on the other eye, with the same results. That marked the extent of Merry's medical knowledge.

Worried, Merry glanced again at the door. Frodo and Sam were taking an awfully long time. Merry addressed his unconscious charge. "Pip, I'm going to check on the others." Merry tucked the cloak cozily around his cousin's neck. "I want you to stay nice and warm, and I'll be back soon. Don't argue with any trolls while I'm gone."

Merry braced himself, and then rose. Dizziness assaulted him, and pain streaked through his chest. Now that he had recovered somewhat, he could isolate it. The worst pain came from halfway down his rib cage, on the outer edge of the left-hand side. All right, Merry would go easy on that side. He turned, spreading his arms for balance. There, that wasn't so bad. He was getting stronger every minute. The room had stopped whirling, now that he'd stood for a moment. Even his headache was bearable. All he need do was avoid stressing those particular ribs, and he was practically as good as new. Probably stronger than Frodo at the moment, although he'd be reluctant to put it to the test.

Merry stepped out of the cave mouth into the darkness. The reek from the troll intensified the moment he passed the door. Merry wondered how the beast could have stood its own stench. He followed the bulky outline of the troll into the night. A few steps beyond the door, the candlelight failed utterly. He shuffled forward, completely blind. "Frodo?"

The familiar voice greeted him not six feet away. "Merry! You should not be out here."

"I came to see if you were all right."

"I'm no worse than I was before. Are _you_ all right?"

"I'll live." Merry picked his way carefully; the many rocks buried under the fuzzy groundcover made the footing treacherous. He could see something of Frodo now as his night vision built, a tiny dark shape crouched at the peak of a bigger blot. Something pale resolved out of the general darkness; Merry realized that it was their guide's face. The Man lay unmoving upon his back, eyes closed. Frodo's hands were upon his head. Merry made himself ask, "Is he…?"

"Aragorn's alive, thankfully." Frodo's words sent a rush of relief through him. The Man lived. Merry closed his eyes in gratitude.

"Sam has gone to find a lever for us to free him," Frodo continued. "How's Pippin?"

Merry wished he knew. He reported what little he had determined. "Unconscious. He took quite a knock to the head. What happened?"

"When the troll grabbed hold of you, Pippin drew his dagger and leapt onto its arm."

Merry's mouth dropped open in amazement. _Pippin?_ Little Pippin, who had been shaking so hard during their rock-throwing diversion that Merry had thought to send him back inside?

"He struck well, to judge by the scream that followed." Merry heard the wry amusement in Frodo's voice. "He's the reason you're still alive."

Pippin. Little Pippin. Merry couldn't move, for the wonder of it. "Mercy."

"To pay him for his trouble, the troll smacked him into the wall."

Merry winced. He'd suspected something like that, but to hear it confirmed brought a fresh edge to his fears. How could anyone survive a blow like that?

Frodo interrupted his thoughts. "Have you your flask?"

Merry started. "It's inside, next to Pippin."

"Would you bring it? I must get this poison off him."

Merry looked down. His night vision had improved to the point where he could see that Strider, and much of the turf around him, was stained with the black blood of the troll. Merry curled his lip. The smell alone told him how toxic it must be; he shuddered to think of that stuff touching his hands, let alone coating his face. If any of it got into Aragorn's eyes, it might blind him. Merry nodded, and started back. Frodo called after him, "And bring a light, if you would."

"Right." Merry made his way to the entrance, glowing before him like a beacon. His pace increased as the light that spilled from the cave illuminated his path. When Merry stepped inside, it seemed almost bright.

He paused, looking down at his cousin. _Little Pippin._ Who would have imagined?

Something sparkled against the far wall. Wonderingly, Merry approached it. As suspected, it was the jeweled hilt of Pippin's sword, resting upon a tumble of rock, near Strider's oversized pack. Careful to bend as little as possible, Merry raised the sword reverently, noting the rank troll blood that stained the last few inches of the blade. Merry looked at Pippin. "Little warrior," he whispered.

He had no spare cloth to wipe the blade clean. He reached for Strider's pack, intending to drag it to a spot where he could open it and look inside. He'd hardly begun to pull before pain sliced through him, making him hiss. There was no way he could shift it; the thing weighed as much as two whole hobbits. Abandoning his idea, he propped Pippin's weapon against the stone wall, where its gems twinkled and gleamed. This sword, that stroke, had saved his life. Merry shook his head. More quickly, he returned to his pack. Keeping his torso straight, he sank to his knees. Pain flashed through his side briefly, but it was bearable. _That's all right,_ Merry thought, rummaging in his pack for a candle, and his remaining clean kerchief. _I can manage this._ He soon found what he needed, and set it aside.

He hefted the water flask, and frowned. It was more than half empty. He didn't want to take Pippin's, for drinking water they must have. Perhaps this bit would suffice to clean the worst of the poison off the Ranger's face. After that, they could plan their next steps. Firewood and water. That would be enough for now. To have just that, would make Merry deeply grateful.

He lay his fingers against Pippin's cheek. The skin was cool. His friend and rescuer slumbered on. Merry stroked his curls, twining an errant strand behind his ear. "Thank you, Pippin. Little Pip."

There was no response to his whisper—not that Merry expected one. Merry tipped his candle to the other to light it. Holding it on one hand, and grasping the cloth and water flask in the other, Merry straightened. He swayed against the dizziness, and gritted his teeth against the pain. After a moment, both discomforts subsided. _I can manage this. _

Holding his prizes in his hands, Merry turned his back on the most precious prize of all, and shuffled into the night.


	9. Chapter 9

Sam had done more running in the last day than he must've done in the last six years, and that were a fact. As he sprinted towards the woods, leaving Mr. Frodo to watch over poor trapped Strider, he tasted the rawness at the back of his throat, like blood, from breathing too hard for too long.

But there was nothing for it. Sam must do the best he could. The entire party was depending on him, with Mr. Pippin out cold—and Sam knew that Mr. Merry was hurt worse than he let on. Not that Sam was going to fault him for that. Mr. Merry making the best of it might give Mr. Frodo one less thing to worry about, and that was all to the good.

Mr. Frodo. He was Sam's chief concern, there was no denying, even with the others as bad off as they were. Sam could see that his master was pushing himself beyond his strength, and it couldn't last. Sam had felt the icy cold in Mr. Frodo's shoulder when he'd pulled him back from the ledge, trying to keep him from going after Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin after they'd been struck down. It was only the night before that Mr. Frodo had fallen all in a heap, weak and shivering, after they'd climbed that ridge. It was all any of them could do to warm him up again, what with the wind and the comfortless rock that was all the stony slope had to offer.

Mr. Frodo was going to collapse again, and soon, sure as Sam's name was Gamgee. He had to get everyone together and out of trouble as quick as might be. Then mayhap Mr. Frodo would sit down, and quit trying to save the whole world all by his own self, especially when he was hurt so bad already.

The stars had come out nice and bright, lighting his way. Even so, the ground was deceiving. More than once, a stone turned beneath his foot, forcing Sam to catch himself before he twisted an ankle. That would be the icing on the cake—him laid up with a fool injury, when there was so much work to be done. Relieved, Sam finally reached the woods—only to discover that he had a whole other problem.

It was black as pitch beneath the trees. How was Sam supposed to find a limb stout enough to use for a lever for that troll, in the dark? He sighed in dismay.

_Well, there's thinking, and there's doing,_ Sam's brain informed him in the Gaffer's voice. _And there's a lot more to show by 'doing' at the end of the day. _

"Right," Sam told himself. "So get doing."

He eased himself into the thicket. Twigs snapped underfoot. On his third step, Sam broke through an invisible drift of pine needles, sinking up to his shin. He pulled his foot out of the hollow, testing for better footing before he set it down again. Waving his hands before him in the blackness, he proceeded into the thicket, hoping he wouldn't get a twig in the eye.

Slender saplings and stout trunks rose all about him. Sam tested the saplings and thicker limbs one by one, feeling if they were alive, and therefore no good to him, or dead, in which case he tested them for strength. Many a limb cracked in his hand; too brittle. Sam took such pieces and tossed them back towards the turf that lay in full starlight not too many steps behind him. Once he stumbled over a fallen log. After gaining his balance, he stripped it efficiently of its dry branches, before crawling over it and proceeding on.

Ah, this is what he wanted. One thick sapling had been struck by another tree, so it leant at a sharp angle. Sam ran his hands over the smooth bark. Still green inside; it would take a fair amount of weight, and not snap.

Sam followed the trunk to the root, where he spent some time trying to twist it free. In the end he drew his blade, the one that Tom Bombadil had given him. Odd fellow, that Tom. Light-hearted as a colt, yet keen-eyed as Gandalf. Sam set his blade to the stubborn root, and felt the time-tested blade sever the stringy wood. Sam smiled; he couldn't help but think that the old chap knew what he was about.

The sapling came free, and Sam dragged it into the clear. Rapidly he ripped or hewed off unneeded limbs, then spent a few moments collecting the branches and pieces of dead wood that he had flung out earlier. One of them was long enough to serve as a lever itself, although being dry, it wouldn't be as strong as the greenwood. Sam nodded, pleased. It would do. He collected as big a bundle of wood and tinder as he could manage. Securing it all with his belt, he hefted the bound end to drag the whole bundle towards the cave.

Sam turned and stopped, puzzled. At first he thought he had lost the cave. Then he made out a dim glow at the base of the cliff. The body of the troll must be blocking most of the candlelight from the cave entrance. Sam felt relieved. He didn't care to advertise their presence to any other trolls who might be in the neighborhood.

When Sam drew closer, a new light bloomed beside the troll. He arrived to find that Mr. Merry had brought another candle outside, and set it near the Ranger. Mr. Frodo was cleaning Mr. Strider's face with a damp cloth. Most of the black blood had been cleaned away, but even in the candlelight, Sam could see how red the Man's skin was where it had been. The poison must have ate right through it. Trust Mr. Frodo to recognize the urgency of that, and do what he could to help.

Mr. Merry had been standing at Mr. Frodo's shoulder, watching him work. As Sam drew near, he looked in Sam's direction. The candlelight must have blinded him, for he said, uncertainly, "Sam?"

"It's me," Sam responded, gaining the circle of light, and dropping his unwieldy bundle on the ground.

Mr. Frodo stared at the stack in bewilderment. "I thought you went for a lever."

"And I found one, too. But we'll need a fire, so I brought back wood for that. As well, I've got an idea about shifting that troll."

"Yes?"

Sam stooped, and collected the greenwood trunk of the sapling. He bore it to where the Ranger was pinned, and angled the thick end to pass under the neck of the troll. "I'll lever the beast's head up this way," he explained. "Once I open a passage underneath, Mr. Merry—" Sam walked back to his pile, and located the other long, stout stick. He carried it back to the troll. "He can stick this one under its chest, and prop it against the earth between Mr. Strider's legs. With the two of us pushing up, Mr. Frodo can slip some of these other pieces of wood into the gap." He indicated the pile he'd assembled. "That way, we can wedge the troll up, bit by bit, until we can roll him off Mr. Strider."

Mr. Merry looked astounded. "You're mad. That thing must weigh seventy stone, if he weighs an ounce!"

"But he's already laying at an angle," Sam argued. "Mr. Strider's whole left side is mostly clear, 'cept for his leg."

"Well, we must try something." Mr. Frodo stood—without too much difficulty, Sam was pleased to see. Mayhap the quiet time he'd spent cleaning the Man's face had rested him somewhat. "The troll's head alone must weigh as much as Fatty Bolger. I'd hate to think of myself trying to breathe for as long as Aragorn has, with dear Fatty sitting on my ribs."

"I shouldn't worry too much, Frodo," said Mr. Merry, coming closer. "Have you tried to lift Strider's pack recently?"

Frodo shook his head.

"It seems our dear Ranger has spent the last two weeks carrying the weight of Fatty Bolger on his back. I'm sure he could breathe for twenty minutes with the weight of Fatty Bolger on his chest."

Frodo smiled weakly, then stooped and dragged the Ranger's right arm up next to his head, where it would be out of trouble when the troll toppled in that direction. Imitating him, Sam quickly moved Mr. Strider's left arm out of the way as well. Mr. Merry watched them, although the doubt showed plainly on his face.

Sam had misgivings of his own. He could see how Mr. Merry struggled for every breath, though he tried to hide it. That troll must have crunched him something fierce. Well, if Mr. Merry was willing to ignore his hurts, Sam would, too. At least, if and until it was proved that he couldn't shift that troll. If that happened, Sam didn't know what he might do.

Well, they could but try, as Mr. Frodo said. No matter what they did, old Strider wouldn't be in any worse fix than he was already. Sam rummaged the wood pile, and found the flattest, stoutest sticks for Mr. Frodo to use as wedges.

"You tuck these under the troll one by one," Sam instructed, as Mr. Frodo came round to Strider's left side. "Brace them against the earth next to Mr. Strider's leg."

"I understand." Mr. Frodo unconsciously rubbed his left arm with his right. Sam bit his tongue. No need for him to be fretting about his master's wound now. Mr. Frodo wouldn't rest until Mr. Strider was safe, so it was best that they get that job done smartly.

The others moved into position. Mr. Merry, wincing, lifted his pole and angled it, ready to slip it into the gap that Sam would create. Mr. Frodo crouched at Sam's feet next to Mr. Merry, a stack of wood ready to use as wedges.

Sam gripped his log, and looked about. Mr. Frodo nodded. "Go on, Sam."

Sam pushed. The troll's head lolled to the side. The shoulders scarce shifted, the huge mountains of meat that they were, but Sam's effort opened enough of a hole that Mr. Merry could slip his stick in underneath, and bear up and at an angle to Sam's. The gap widened. Mr. Frodo instantly stuck a wedge as far back along Mr. Strider's thigh as he could, to boost up the troll's shoulder on that side. Mr. Merry worked in his pole a bit farther, then raised up the troll a shade more. Mr. Frodo shoved in a second wedge.

"It's working!" Mr. Merry gasped.

Sam glanced his way, but what he saw didn't comfort him none. Mr. Merry's lips were pulled back tight; Sam couldn't tell if that expression was more strain, or pain. What's more, the gentlehobbit seemed about at his limit. Mr. Frodo added a third wedge, but Mr. Merry didn't seem able to lift his pole no higher than it already was. In the flickering candlelight, Sam could see sweat breaking out on the straining hobbit's face.

Sam angled his pole towards the troll's shoulder to help raise it a touch more. "Can you get in one more, Mr. Frodo?" he grunted.

Mr. Frodo chose a new branch, thinner but longer, to add to the stack. "In."

"Ease down," Sam said. Mr. Merry let go instantly. Fortunately Sam had expected that, and braced for it. He then relaxed his own grip more slowly. The troll's body settled back.

Mr. Merry stood hunched over, breathing hard. "Well, Sam," he panted, "we have managed to raise the troll's shoulder about four inches off Strider's left leg. We must do better than that."

Mr. Frodo looked at his friend with concern. "Merry, you aren't up to this."

Mr. Merry gave him a serious look. "I'd appreciate any suggestions."

Luckily, Sam had one. "Let's try this." Sam chose the stoutest log from the pile, and propped it in the gap under the troll's shoulder, next to Mr. Frodo's wedges. He then extracted his greenwood pole from beneath the troll's neck, and repositioned it to lever off the log. Mr. Frodo watched him silently, too exhausted to comment. Sam made his voice brisk and businesslike.

"I'll raise that troll up as far as I can by myself. Then you sirs, working together, slide Mr. Strider by me. If I'm lifting up, you might be able to pull Mr. Strider right out from under him."

Mr. Frodo looked over the troll, lying cockeyed across Mr. Strider's right side, then nodded. Wordlessly, he got to his feet, then took a good hold of the Ranger's tunic on the left side. Mr. Merry crouched next to him, moving stiffly. He gripped with both hands around the Man's left arm, close to his shoulder. Sam worked the pole as far under the troll as he could reach. He made sure it was braced tight against the log, and then began to work his way, hand over hand, from next the troll towards the end of the pole, like a hobbit lad climbing toward the upper end of a seesaw while a heavy friend sat on the other.

For a moment he thought the load would be too heavy for him to shift. His feet left the ground near the end of the lever, but Sam kept going, dangling like a toy. For a moment he wished that he was still wearing his pack, for the extra weight. Then he felt the troll's body start to tip. This brought the pole lower, and Sam's feet touched the ground. At the very end of the lever, he pulled down far enough to hook his body over the pole, and put his back into it. The greenwood creaked and bowed; the troll tipped slightly to the right. The others scrambled beside him, but Sam daren't look, just stood with his arms trembling as he pressed against the monstrous load.

"Harder, Frodo! Swing him round."

"I'm pulling as hard as I can."

"We're getting him—blast! His leg's stuck."

"I've got it."

From the corner of his eye, Sam saw Mr. Frodo crawl right under the troll's propped body. Sam wanted to holler at him to get out of there—that he might not be able to hold it. But he just hissed and pressed down harder.

Mr. Merry's voice shook from where he strained to pull the Man to safety. "Hurry, Frodo!"

Sam's muscles were twitching all anyhow, protesting the strain. He closed his eyes, the better to concentrate. His arms felt as if they were on fire, fighting to keep pushing. _Hurry, Mr. Frodo!_ he thought, silently seconding Mr. Merry's plea.

"Good!" cried Mr. Merry. "Back, back, back!"

Sam felt something brush past his leg.

"Got him, Sam!" Mr. Frodo cried.

Sam meant to ease up gently, but his arms couldn't do it. The pole snapped upwards, smacking him in the chest and twisting sideways as it slipped off the log support. Sam tumbled backwards to earth.

"_Sam!_" A gentle hand touched his chest.

Sam could do nothing but lie there and breathe. He trembled in every limb, like a kitten wet through from a rainstorm. The spasms subsided as Sam caught his breath. A hand lifted his head, and Sam felt water at his lips. He sputtered and turned his head away, closing his lips.

"Oh, Sam!" This time the voice sounded more exasperated than worried.

"Begging your—" Sam turned his head to cough, "pardon, Mr. Frodo," he wheezed. "You should save that water for them as needs it."

"That's what I _was_ doing." There was no mistaking the irritation in Mr. Frodo's voice now. Sam winced, but pushed himself onto his elbows nonetheless. He blinked to find a great grey wall of troll shoulder not two inches from his toes.

"You almost ended up under the troll yourself," said Mr. Merry, off to the right. Sam looked over. The Ranger's long body lay like a green mound beside him, unfortunately one that reeked of troll blood. Beyond it, Mr. Merry knelt near the Man's head. The Bucklander's face was sweat-beaded and pasty. Sam was not pleased to see that the owner of that face seemed to be as wobbly of limb as Sam at the moment.

Mr. Frodo pursed his lips as he carefully stoppered the nearly empty flask with one hand. "Bother you, Samwise Gamgee. Do you realize how difficult you make it for anyone to do anything for you?"

"I'm just one of those as needs to do the doin'." Oriented, Sam rolled to his knees. His strength was returning, though his muscles still trembled from their recent exertion. He watched his hands twitch on his thighs, as if they belonged to a different person entirely. "What's the next job, sir?" he rasped.

"Well, I _had_ thought to move Strider into the cave, but I don't think any of us are capable of doing any more pulling at the moment."

Sam chewed his lip. "It won't be warm in the cave, sir. Not with a stone floor."

Mr. Frodo sounded worried. "Would it be safe to light a fire out here?"

Sam recalled the dim glow he'd seen from the forest's edge. "If you set it between the troll and the cliff wall, you should be safe enough. This troll might have his drawbacks, but he does a proper job of blocking the light."

"Very well." Mr. Frodo clambered awkwardly to his feet. "I shall make a fire. _You_ shall rest."

"_You_ shall rest," Mr. Merry countered, scrambling to his own feet. He nearly fell doing it, too. Sam barely shook his head, wondering who Mr. Merry thought he was fooling.

"_You_ shall sit next to Sam," Mr. Frodo argued.

Sam fought the urge to chuckle, then crawled to the Ranger's side. He still felt weak, but he was getting stronger—which was more than he could say for those other two. They stood glaring at one another, both as stubborn as a tot refusing its medicine, and neither of them willing to own up to their hurts.

Sam groped for the pouch that the Man wore at his belt. Sam winced as his fingers touched the thick troll blood. It was growing tacky as it dried, but still prickled against his skin. Grimacing, he worked the gummy knot loose. They'd have to get these clothes off the Ranger, before the stuff et through the leather.

"What are you doing?" Mr. Frodo asked, abandoning his end of the face-off.

"This is where Mr. Strider put that _athelas_ he found." Sam tugged the pouch loose, and opened the top. The pungent scent of the culled leaves wafted up to his nose, even through the troll stench. Satisfied, Sam hoisted himself upright. "We're short on medicine, and I thought as we might give this a try."

"What will you do with it?" Mr. Frodo came closer.

"Same as he did, I reckon. We'll boil water, then bruise a couple of leaves and throw them in. We can wash Mr. Strider's face, and wherever else that poison touched him. And we can tend to everyone's hurts—_everyone's_," he added, with a significant glare at the others, "whether they think they're hiding it or not."

"Oh, all right." Mr. Frodo bent to collect a few pieces of wood with his good hand. Mr. Merry watched him a moment, then stiffly bent to join him. Although he'd grimaced at Sam's statement, he looked as if he might fall face forward any minute.

Leaving the gentlehobbits to sort the wood, Sam walked passed the troll, noting an indentation in the ground that would make a good fire pit. He continued into the cave for his pack. It seemed bright in the light of the candle. Mr. Pippin slumbered on, wrapped in his blanket. A cloth had been wound round his head as a bandage. Sam checked the young hobbit for any improvement. Finding none, he shook his head.

Sam noticed old Strider's pack in the corner. Might as well haul that out, afore Mr. Merry tried to do it. It was deuced heavy, but Sam could manage it; he dumped it near the unconscious Man. He returned to the cave to collect the rest of their packs. Placing them near the fire pit, Sam got out his set of shallow camping pans, with one nestled inside the other. He had half of his own flask left; this he emptied into the smaller pan. Setting it near his pack so it wouldn't get kicked over, Sam fetched the flask that Mr. Frodo had used on him, lying where he had left it. There was no more than a mouthful of liquid in it. With a sigh, Sam took Mr. Strider's flask off his pack. At least this one held a bit more. Setting Mr. Strider's flask aside, he emptied the remnants of the small flask into the partly filled saucepan.

The two gentlehobbits had begun to lay the fire. "When the fire's built," Sam told them, indicating the pan, "put this on to boil."

Mr. Frodo glanced over and nodded, then continued his work.

Sam went back into the cave. He located Mr. Pippin's flask, still half full, and slung it over his shoulder. He then carefully lifted Mr. Pippin in his arms, blankets and all. Sam hated to move him, but a cave without a fire would be colder than the open air _with_ a fire. Sam puffed under the load as he lurched to his feet. That didn't seem right; that Mr. Pippin was hardly more than a lad. Sam must be more wore out than he'd realized. Still, it was better that he carried Mr. Pippin outside now, than letting Mr. Frodo and Mr. Merry try to shift him later.

Sam shuffled out the cave mouth under his burden. As he neared the fire pit, Mr. Merry saw what he was doing. Wincing in his rush to rise, he guided Sam to a soft area near the fire pit's edge. Together they placed Mr. Pippin on the turf. Leaving Mr. Merry to settle his cousin, Sam emptied Mr. Pippin's flask and Mr. Strider's into the larger of the two pans. The water neared the brim.

Mr. Merry looked at Sam curiously as he rose, three empty hobbit-sized flasks in his hands, and the larger Man-sized flask slung across his shoulder. "I'm off for water. We're in sore need of it." Sam pointed at the full pan. "You'd best save some of that for drinking, in case it takes me a while. I've a mind to follow the gully downhill, but there's no telling where I'll find a pool."

"Sam," Mr. Frodo started to protest, but Sam was ready for him.

"Mr. Strider needs a proper wash, and that little panful of water won't do it." Sam saw Mr. Frodo close his mouth in reluctant understanding. "I'll fill these, and then come back with as much wood as I can carry."

"You shouldn't go off alone," Mr. Merry scolded.

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Merry, but I've the notion that I won't be gone five minutes afore you head for the woods by _your_ lonesome, to find more wood for the fire. And I'm in a mite better shape than you are at the moment, if you'll pardon me for noticing."

Mr. Merry stared, then shut his mouth abruptly. Beside him, Mr. Frodo chuckled. "Very well, Sam. You have carried the day. Do be as careful as you can, however. If you're gone too long, we _will_ come looking for you."

"Give me time, sir. That water might be a ways off."

Mr. Frodo nodded. "Good luck, Sam."

"Thank you, sir."

Sam hefted his light load, then headed into the night. He went slowly. He was too spent to do more. Gradually his night vision returned. When he looked up slope, he could see an orange glow flickering behind him. The fire was started. Another small step had been made.

More confident of his vision, Sam stepped more widely. He'd decided to follow the edge of the woods downhill and listen for the trickle of water, rather than try to forge a path beneath the blinding trees. He glanced once more over his shoulder, pleased to see that the rising hill was hiding the sign of the fire. Someone would have to get right close to see it.

Not watching his feet, Sam trod awkwardly on a stone. He went down, just that fast, landing all in a heap. Sam sat befuddled on his backside, with his palms braced against the turf, and stared at his knees. Well, if that weren't a caution. There was no spring left in his legs. He must be a sight more tired than he'd reckoned.

Carefully, Sam sorted out his limbs. His knees gave a slight tremor, as he pushed himself up. Sam stood tall, and heaved a breath. There, now. He'd best watch himself, or he'd be twisting that ankle after all. Wouldn't that be the crown of all, if Mr. Frodo and Mr. Merry had to go searching for him in the night?

Nagging himself for a ninnyhammer, Sam continued cautiously down the hill.


	10. Chapter 10

'_And yet less thanks have we than you. Travellers scowl at us, and countrymen give us scornful names. "Strider" I am to one fat man who lives within a day's march of foes that would freeze his heart.'_

—"_The Council of Elrond," The Fellowship of the Ring_

-0-0-0-

Frodo watched Sam vanish into the night. A variety of feelings chased through him: gratitude, admiration, and relief predominantly, mingled with concern for his friend's safety. Apprehension regarding the safety of the party, should anything attack them during Sam's absence, was another consideration; Frodo was under no illusions that he and Merry could offer anything approaching an adequate defense for their injured members. In fact, Frodo doubted that he'd be able to protect himself. What Merry might manage was probably beyond either of them to speculate at this point. Still, Frodo suspected that one good swing would be all it would take to put Merry on the ground for good.

Frodo fed another branch to the fire. The warmth on his face and chest felt good. He leaned forward, hoping that the fire might unfreeze his icy arm, although bitter experience had taught him not to expect much. The long day had taken a toll on him, from their brisk march down from that dreadful saddle that had been last night's camp, to the flight from and then battle with the troll, to the tending of their fallen friends. Frodo couldn't remember the last proper rest he'd had. Or perhaps he could. Luncheon, beneath the legs of the stone trolls? He shook his head. That seemed ages ago, almost as if it had happened in another life.

Wrenching the Ranger's leg free had been the final brick to collapse an over-weighted burrow. Frodo had had to crawl beneath the very body of the troll, twist Aragorn's knee round and tug his foot out so Merry could drag him free—and he had to do all that before poor Sam collapsed from the strain. Frodo saw how the sturdy hobbit's body had trembled from the exertion. He wondered, should Sam let go or the lever break, if the weight of the falling troll would kill him.

But both Sam and the stick had held out—good old Sam. Frodo had crawled clear in the nick of time, but the incident had drained whatever tiny reserve of strength was left to him. The cold in his shoulder was so intense that he could feel it radiating against his chin. Even as he huddled before the fire, a palsy of weakness swept over him. Now he shook as if with fever, now he shivered with cold. He longed to lie down and rest, but could not. Aragorn needed his help. In fact, Frodo should try to move him nearer the fire, now that it was built. And they had to remove his clothes before that, to keep the poison from soaking through more than it already had. Just the thought of such a chore sent Frodo nearly into despair. Why, oh why, had he listened to the wraith on Weathertop? His moment of weakness kept coming back to haunt him, again and again. Wretched, ill-done mistake.

Merry's close footstep startled him out of his stupor. Frodo squared his shoulders and tried to sit straighter, as Merry sank down beside him.

His cousin's eyes narrowed with the effort of lowering himself to his knees. Now that Sam had gone, Merry allowed himself the luxury of a groan. "Beastly bugger," he growled. "I'd like to break _his_ ribs."

Frodo mutely offered him the stout stick he'd been stirring the fire with. Merry waved it away. "No, thanks. There wouldn't be any satisfaction in it, as he's already dead."

"Pity. He makes an easier target this way."

Merry grunted an acknowledgement, then bent forward. Frodo saw that he had Sam's smaller water-filled cook pan in his hands. Using his poker, Frodo scooted a burning limb close to another to make a base for it. Merry set the pan on the sticks over the flames, then sank all the way onto his heels, his discomfort evident.

"How's Pippin?" Frodo asked.

"The same. Sleeping." Merry turned pain-clouded eyes on him. "How about you?"

"No worse than before," Frodo assured him, not quite truthfully. He felt altogether done in, but supposed there was little point in saying so. "So the troll broke some of your ribs, did he?"

"It feels like it." Merry indicated his left side. "It hurts worst here, on the outer edge. And my head feels swollen as a melon. I knocked it rather hard against the floor when he dropped me, the wretched brute."

"Well, you mustn't blame the brute. You'd drop somebody, too, if Pippin landed on your arm, sword-point first."

Merry smiled. "Impulsive Took. I'm looking at this all wrong. Instead of complaining, I should be overflowing with gratitude that Pippin didn't chop off my ear, by mistake."

Frodo nodded an assent, but felt too weary to answer.

"Well?" Merry prompted.

Frodo started, and realized he'd been drifting again. "Yes?"

Merry nodded at the Ranger, sprawled two paces away. "Shouldn't we move Strider closer to the fire?"

"Yes, of course." Frodo roused himself, collecting his legs to stand. Mindful of every required motion, he pushed himself up.

He straightened to find Merry, also standing, eyeing him dubiously. "Frodo, my lad, you look regularly done."

"Speak for yourself," Frodo answered tartly.

"I believe I just did. I'm not sure that I should allow you to help."

"Don't be silly. You'll never be able to drag him any distance by yourself."

"Ah, but I don't intend to _drag_ him at all." Merry walked past Frodo to the Ranger's pack. He knelt carefully, and retrieved the Ranger's thick blanket, which was all that the Man slept with. Rising with that same stiff-bodied motion, Merry walked round to the side of the Ranger nearest the fire. He unrolled the huge blanket, then walked about its edge, kicking it flat on all sides.

"The fire's only two steps away," Merry explained. "I say we _roll_ him. Two turns, and we'll have him next the fire, or near enough."

Frodo measured the distance with his eyes. It was certainly worth a try. Frodo nodded and walked round to the Ranger's farther side. He knelt with difficulty. As soon as he stepped away from the fire, the cold laid hold of him. He tugged his cloak closer about himself.

Merry sank down at his side. Instead of rolling the Man over, he started to work the lacings of his vest. Frodo stared, and then realized what Merry was doing.

Merry briefly caught his gaze. "We might as well do it now, so we don't foul the blanket."

"Of course." Frodo reached to help. "But let me do this. You get his boots. That's a two-handed job."

"More like a two-_hobbit_ job, but I'll manage."

Manage they did, but only just. The Man was heavy, and moving his unconscious limbs awkward. His clothes were leaden, stiff with crusted blood. They removed what they could as he lay, then gently tipped him over, with Merry pushing on his chest and Frodo guiding his hips. When Aragorn toppled onto his chest, they tugged off the rest of his clothing. While Frodo worked the final sleeve free, Merry moistened a cloth so they could wash the troll blood off the back of his neck; fortunately his clothing had protected the rest of his skin. Frodo winced when, working under his hair, the cloth came away red, not black. Some of the blood on the Ranger's scalp was his own. Frodo didn't care to bring the troll-stained cloth in contact with the Man's injuries. The Ranger's pale skin revealed too clearly the ferocity of the battle. Numerous bruises, bumps, and scrapes marred his body. The worst was a patch of abraded, purplish flesh on his thigh. Frodo prodded the area gingerly. He had no doubt that such a blow must leave the Ranger lame. How they should make it to Rivendell now, Frodo couldn't imagine.

Merry meanwhile spread out the Ranger's cloak, ready for the next turn. Trapped under the Man's body, it had remained relatively unsoiled save for one edge, which Merry turned under to keep away from his skin. Working side-by-side, the hobbits turned the Man once again, so that he lay face-up on his cloak. This done, Merry covered him with the blanket.

"There!" He was puffing from the effort. "Now we can give him a proper wash. Is the water boiling yet?"

The water was boiling nicely—so much so that Frodo was dismayed to see that some of it had boiled away. He eased the pan off the fire, while Merry rummaged round Sam's pack. He emitted a cry of triumph, and then displayed a gory pouch to Frodo. "Here we are. Artillis leaf, or whatever it is."

"_Athelas_," Frodo corrected. "Or so I believe. According to Sam, we need two leaves."

"Right." Merry tugged open the pouch. "Whew, smells strong. Good, though. Rather… invigorating."

"That's fortunate." Frodo accepted the leaves that Merry handed him. "I can use all the invigoration I can get."

"I'll get some more water for washing." Merry walked back to where the other pan lay.

Frodo held the long, slender leaves in his hand. He hadn't been overly aware when Strider had prepared the infusion for him on Weathertop; he had still been in shock from the attack. No, not Strider—Aragorn. He remembered how the Man had responded to that name when Frodo had tended him earlier. That was his true name, Gandalf's note had said. Only moments after Frodo had learned it, Aragorn had proclaimed that name himself.

_I am Aragorn son of Arathorn. _

Slowly, Frodo crushed the leaves in his hand. Instantly, a pungent odor filled the air, ten times as powerful as it had been the moment before. As the scent hit his nostrils, Frodo felt his worries fall away. His mind grew calm. His body was tired—he could feel that. Yet he felt more rested than he had all evening, as if someone had removed a heavy burden that he hadn't realized he had been carrying until that moment.

Footsteps hurried to his side. Frodo looked up to see Merry staring down at him, eyes wide. "What did you do?" he demanded, looking shocked.

Frodo looked at his hand. The _athelas_ tried to straighten as he uncurled his fingers. "I bruised the leaves." Frodo could see the oil gleaming in the fresh seams on the leaves. He extended his hand, and dropped them into the hot water.

At once a soothing vapor wafted from the pan, filling the air with a refreshing fragrance. Frodo closed his eyes and tipped back his head, reveling in it.

"Ah." Merry inhaled deeply. "I'd forgotten how good that smells. It seems even better tonight than it did on Weathertop."

"I'll have to rely on your assessment for that." Frodo opened his eyes, and looked round for his washcloth. "I was rather preoccupied at the time."

"Brr, don't remind me." Merry knelt near the fire.

Perhaps it was an impression of Frodo's gentled mind, but his cousin seemed to move more easily than he had moments before. "We should bathe your side in this," he mused.

"And your shoulder." Merry produced a tin cup. Into it he carefully poured some of the _athelas_ infusion, then plucked out one leaf to add to his portion. "I'll keep half of this clean in this cup. I'll start with Pippin, then we can use it on ourselves afterwards. The stuff you use on Strider won't be fit for anyone else, once that troll juice gets into it."

"Aragorn," Frodo corrected. He met Merry's startled eyes. "We must remember to call him Aragorn. It's his name."

Merry blinked. "Right. Aragorn it is."

As Frodo maneuvered the flat pan closer to Aragorn, he noticed Merry tuck a second tin cup near the fire. "What's that?"

Merry positioned the cup so it wouldn't tip, then twitched his hand away from the coals. "Just some water. I put a bit of dried meat in it. I hope it might make a broth of sorts—for Pippin to drink, when he wakes." Merry rose, taking the cup of _athelas_ with him. In two steps, he reached Pippin's side. "Hullo, Pip. It's me. I've got something soothing for your head. It will bring you round in no time."

Frodo smiled, then turned his attention to Aragorn. The Man lay as they had placed him, but his face looked more relaxed than before. And his breathing—Frodo frowned. He hadn't noticed previously, but the Man seemed to be breathing more deeply than before. Frodo crawled towards his head, nudging the pan along with him.

"Aragorn, I have the herb you found. _Athelas_." Settling himself, he dipped his washcloth into the pan, and wrung it out as best he could one-handed. Gently, he applied it to the Ranger's head, trying to locate the hidden cuts beneath his hair that he had noticed earlier. The one at the front was easy to find; a trickle of red tracked the Man's hairline. Frodo traced it back to the source. There was a cut and a bump, doubtless from the Man's head striking a stone.

"I'll tend to your cuts first," Frodo murmured as he worked. He tilted the Ranger's head to get at the lump he'd discovered on the back of his skull. "We don't want any nasty troll blood in there, do we, Aragorn?" Frodo blotted the cut, and then repeated the name. "Aragorn." Unlike before, the Man did not stir at the sound of his name, although his face looked restful.

With a sigh, Frodo moved on to his other injuries. He recalled how Aragorn had bathed his hurt shoulder with the brew, so that's what Frodo did now in return. He ran the washcloth over the Ranger's battered side; a livid, semi-circular bruise marked where the troll's head had rested on the rim of his rib cage. Frodo then bathed the bad area on the Ranger's thigh, lifting the blanket to work. He had no idea if it would help, but it seemed only sensible to clean the abrasion, at least.

Frodo tucked back the blanket all round, then scooted up to the Ranger's head. He refreshed the cloth in the dwindling brew. Carefully, he leaned over the sleeping man's face. "I don't know if this will help," he murmured, going over the inflamed patches of skin. "You were burned by the troll blood. Perhaps this brew might ease it. It won't hurt to clean it again, in any event."

Aragorn made no response, but his breathing deepened when Frodo brought the washcloth to his face. Gently, he lathed the area on the Ranger's face and neck, where the blood had spattered the thickest. It was easy to see the red discoloration in the firelight, even through the Man's bristly whiskers.

"I hope this helps, Aragorn," Frodo continued. "If anyone deserves help, it's you. You didn't have to come with us. And you didn't have to risk your life to save ours. But you did." Frodo refreshed his cloth, and then wrapped it around to bathe the back of the Ranger's neck. "Why did you? Was it because of Gandalf? Did he make you promise to look after us? Or was it your own idea? And if so, why?" Frodo mopped all of the area where the troll's blood had been. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but the skin did look less flushed where his cloth has passed.

Frodo returned the cloth to the pan, and then paused. He could see the Ranger's eyes moving beneath the closed lids. This sign of returning consciousness arrested him. Wringing out the cloth once more, Frodo bent near to the Ranger's face.

"Aragorn," he said softly in his ear. He blotted the battered skin. "Can you hear me?"

The Man's nostrils fluttered. He was definitely responding to the _athelas_, now that it dampened his very face. Frodo patted the area round the Man's lips and nostrils, so the scent would permeate. "Aragorn, can you hear me?"

Something was there, restless, evasive—some shred of consciousness that Frodo could almost touch. He leant closer, resting his forehead against the Ranger's. With the damp cloth sponging the Man's face, Frodo closed his eyes, and reached for that elusive presence. "Aragorn," he whispered.

Suddenly Frodo envisioned a tall young man. He was fair of face, as youths often are before their bones thicken into the harsher lines of adulthood. His hair was dark, but his eyes were light, so clear they were almost empty of color. They caught the orange glow of the sunset, and reflected the gleam of the white birch stems, through which he walked. The light of joy was in his face, and he sang.

Some insight told Frodo that he was seeing Aragorn in truth, as the young man he had been. With a start, Frodo realized that he recognized the song. It was the same that Aragorn had sung to them upon Weathertop—the lay of Lúthien Tinúviel, the Elf maid.

Upon the thought, his mind leaped forward, to that night. They stood in circle about the fire, backs to the flames, peering anxiously into the darkness. Frodo was chilled; he could not stop shaking. Sam cringed at his side, all fight for once gone from him, as the tall shadows, like holes in the blackness, advanced. From the closest shadow came a venomous hiss.

A swirl of activity flashed through Frodo's mind—an irresistible call, pale faces, the rush of a cloak and a piercing, mind-numbing pain. Strider lashed out with a flaming brand. Frodo was falling, falling—but Strider had leaped past him, wielding fire against the deadly cold. And though he had fallen, Frodo could see the Man, the Ranger—Aragorn son of Arathorn—pit himself against the creatures of darkness. There was nothing in his mind but this: to defeat the servants of the Enemy. No Frodo. None of his friends. Not any of the people of Bree. Only duty, and determination, and a will set like adamant.

No, there was one thing more. _Tinúviel_. Frodo could see the thought clearly. Even as Aragorn fought, the song lingered on, low and piercing, full of heartbreak. Softly as it played, it remained in the mind, as Elvish songs do—sharp and clear, unspoilt by time.

Frodo faded from the scene. He was nothing. He had been nothing to Strider but an obligation—was less than nothing to Aragorn the Man, veteran of many journeys. But Tinúviel was vivid, alive. She was the song inside him that never died. She was the life pulse of his blood, present with every beat of his heart.

Frodo's fingers stroked the Ranger's face. "Aragorn," he breathed. "Come back to the light. Come back to Tinúviel. She is waiting."

Though his eyes were closed, Frodo felt the Man's heart rate pick up. He huddled against the Ranger, his teeth chattering in his head. He was so cold! Stubbornly, he forced himself to speak. "Come back, Aragorn. Leave the Enemy behind. Come to the meadow, where Tinúviel dances."

And just as the young Aragorn must have seen it years ago, so Frodo saw it now through the Man's own eyes. It was impression merely, for he could visualize no face. But the haunting beauty of the Elf maid pierced his heart. He turned (Aragorn turned). Tinúviel stood before him, clothed in a mantle of silver and blue. Her long dark hair, bound by gems, stirred in the breeze. She stood still, looking towards him, yet her body was music; her poise, movement; her clear eyes, wisdom tempered with laughter.

Frodo's lips moved, but it was Aragorn's ragged voice that whispered, "Tinúviel."

Light blazed in Frodo's mind. With other sight, he saw what he had glimpsed before—outside the barrow, when Tom had spoken: a long line of grim Men, tall and fell, with bright swords, and eyes that were fierce, yet wise. The last of these strode towards him, strong and magnificent. It was Aragorn, and he had a star upon his brow. Frodo heard himself call, "Aragorn!" His voice seemed faint and far away.

Beneath him, something stirred. A distant part of his mind knew that this must be the Ranger, struggling back to consciousness. A harsh voice rasped in his ear: "Tinúviel."

In his vision, star-gem Aragorn looked at Frodo, and smiled. Somewhere in the distance, Frodo heard Merry's voice, calling his name, but he could not see him. Frodo held dream Aragorn's eyes. Their keenness merged with the light of the star stone to dazzle him. Frodo raised his arm, but there was nothing to prevent his fall. No hand—no patch of earth, even. Just a shadow that wisped past his face, leaving him frozen and helpless and alone.

Frodo toppled forward into white oblivion.


	11. Chapter 11

Aragorn emerged from the wilderness of Dungortheb, under the shadow of Ered Gorgoroth, the Mountains of Terror. Narsil was in his hand. The short blade flickered in the weak light, its jagged edge fouled with the black blood of some spawn of Ungoliant. The webs of the many-eyed monsters clung to his face, sticky and stinging. He could not claw them away. Narsil dragged at his arm, weighed down with gore. Yet when he looked, it was not Narsil, but his handless wrist that pulled so heavily, with blood dripping from the stump to stain the grasses red. Weariness swept over him; he staggered forward, barely able to lift his feet.

The sound of a song drew his gaze. Lúthien was dancing before him, there in the forest of Rivendell. She was clad in raiment blue and silver—or was it golden stars? He was stricken dumb, watching her. Her beauty bewitched him, but he could not move; the poison from the wound was strong in him, slowing his limbs.

He strove to speak. _What shall be our doom?_ he asked. But the question sounded only in his mind.

Yet the Elf maiden heard him, for she answered, "I will cleave to you, Dúnadan."

And he said, "'Estel' I was called, but I am Aragorn, Arathorn's son, Isildur's heir, Lord of the Dúnedain."

And she said, "The gift of the One to Men is bitter to receive."

Narsil was gone. His restored hand held a different blade, yet it was somehow the same. A red light gleamed in the metal, and flickered over the many runes and devices set into its length.

Lúthien's face began to glow. "Aragorn," she said, though her lips did not move. "Come back to the light."

He stepped forward to embrace her. But she was gone.

"_Tinúviel!_" Aragorn seized his scabbard to sheathe his blade; the housing glimmered, for it was made of silver and gold, and was strange to him. He quenched the light of the sword. The dark trees stood around him, seemingly closer, thick with webs. A stench was in the air, clogging his breath.

From a place beyond the shadows, Lúthien whispered, "I am waiting."

Through the blossom-heavy trees of Caras Galadon he ran, and his garments were silver and white. Yet brighter still gleamed Lúthien Tinúviel, away upon the hill. "Tinúviel!" he cried.

She stood still. Aragorn approached her across a field of yellow _elanor_, and she held his gaze the while. When he reached her at last, he said, "Now the time of payment draws near."

She answered, "Maybe my doom will be not unlike hers."

Aragorn took her hand, and caressed it. Her skin was soft, like a flower petal. He spoke through his grief. "Yet there may be a light beyond the darkness. I would have you see it, and be glad."

And the brightness of her face grew, until it blotted out all else, blinding him. He shielded his eyes with an arm, for he could not bear her radiance.

"Come back to the light," she said, and her voice was strange. It held a tone of weariness, sharpened by pain.

Aragorn blinked as the light receded. A figure faced him, wrapped in a brilliant glow. The eyes that looked out of the broad, fine-featured face were calm, large, arresting in their intensity. Aragorn did not know this being. It looked upon him sadly, with suffering in its eyes. With an effort it reached out its right hand, and laid it against Aragorn's cheek. "Come back to the light," it said.

Then Aragorn saw a thing that tore his heart; for this gentle, luminous being was pierced by a ribbon of darkness. It had entered the left shoulder, and left a dark track through the creature's clear tissues, like the trail of a slug. At the end of that track lay a black chip that repelled all light. Even now, Aragorn could see the inky shard pressing inwards, working its way towards the being's pulsing heart. Yet he did not blench, this wounded soul, but looked upon Aragorn with kindness and pity. Gently, he touched Aragorn's face. "Come back," he said.

Aragorn felt the bitterness of his years like a weight upon his chest. He said harshly, "A hunted man sometimes wearies of distrust and longs for friendship."

"I believed that you were a friend." The being stroked Aragorn's face, and the touch was wet. "At least I wished to."

With horror, Aragorn saw that the being's hand was wounded. Red smears trailed its touch, staining his skin. With a jolt, he realized that part of the hand was missing. Aragorn shivered, knowing this to be the mark of a Bane fulfilling its doom. He knew it as surely as Beren must have known, when he had clasped the Silmaril for so short a time, before losing both it and hand to the ravening jaws of the wolf. And Aragorn wept.

The being stroked his hair. It whispered, "All that I have and might have had, I leave to you."

Then Aragorn clasped the creature's hand, and held it to his face. Its skin was like flower petals, and his tears fell upon it. And someone else was crying out, and trying to pull him away, but Aragorn heeded him not. He clung to the being's hand as if this one alone could lead him out of the wilderness. He could not… let… go.

"_Frodo!" _

The agonized cry burst upon his ears. Aragorn's hand was torn from his gentle guide. He was alone, and darkness was around him.

"_Frodo!" _

Something landed near him; footfalls beside his head. Aragorn flinched, then gasped a huge breath. Fire lanced his side. Aragorn curled towards it, wrapping his arms about his agony. He coughed, and the spasms were like spears. The air reeked of death.

There was a brush of cloth against his shoulder, and movement at his side. "Frodo, speak to me." There was a sound, as of a palm patting flesh. "Don't do this, Frodo. Come along, wake up."

The voice sounded familiar, but he couldn't place it. What was that stench? It nearly suffocated him, much as his body longed to breathe. Aragorn opened his mouth to draw in short, painful breaths. Each gasp drove daggers into his side, and points of pain into his skull.

"You're frozen!" that half-remembered voice exclaimed. "We must get you warm. Here you go, face the fire now." There was scrabbling beside him, and more footfalls, this time away.

With an effort, Aragorn looked towards the sound. He was lying on earth; the ground was uneven, littered with lumpy, turf-covered stones. A blanket covered him, and naught else. A being lay at his side, facing away from him, yet so close that Aragorn could feel the warmth of its back against his skin. It was small enough to be a child. Red highlights from the fire gleamed in its dark, curly hair. It did not move.

Another creature sprang into sight, also small. This one had lighter-colored locks, and bore a blanket. The firelight showed its face clearly, as it rushed to where its companion lay.

Merry.

With the name, everything clicked into place: the fight, the troll, the hopeless battle. Yet his final strike must have succeeded, for here was Merry, still alive. And here beside him lay… Frodo.

_Frodo._ The name shocked him into awareness, even as it pulled him back to the dream. _That being, that beautiful, glowing soul, was… Frodo?_ Aragorn stared in amazement.

Merry reached Frodo's side and stopped, shocked. "Strider!" The blanket swung loosely in his grasp. "You're awake."

Aragorn drew breath to answer him. Pain flared in his side, but he managed to gasp, "He called me."

"He did." Merry knelt, moving with a peculiar stiffness. Swiftly, he bundled Frodo's limp form in the blanket. "I heard him calling you. Then he cried out, and fell."

Aragorn hadn't the breath to explain. The "calling" he referred to went deeper than a mere vocal summons. Frodo had set his awareness loose, to find the wandering spirit and bring it home. That power should have been beyond any but certain of the Eldar, and those of the Dúnedain who had acquired the gift through their blood. Never had he heard of another mortal performing this feat. Aragorn looked upon the motionless hobbit with wonder.

Merry tucked the blanket around his friend. "I'm so glad you're awake! I've been frightfully worried about all of you. And now Frodo has reached his limit, I fear."

"He should—" Aragorn halted, as the words brought fire to his side. Legacy of the troll, no doubt. It must have nearly crushed him when it fell.

"Yes?" Merry watched him anxiously. "Tell me what I must do."

Aragorn reconsidered what he was going to say, in the face of Merry's distress. _Frodo should not have attempted this._ Yet, how _did_ Frodo accomplish it? Had the hobbit even known what he was doing?

Suddenly, insinuating itself through the fetor of the troll, Aragorn distinguished a familiar, pungent aroma. He glanced down, startled. A nearly empty cooking pan lay near his head. It contained a wadded cloth in a small amount of liquid. Both cloth and pan gently released a healing scent. Aragorn frowned. "You used _athelas_?"

"We thought it might help," Merry babbled. "You had that… fluid, all over your face. We were trying to clean it off."

Aragorn had felt the burning of the troll blood, even in his dream. "Of course."

And Frodo had been the one sponging Aragorn's face—Merry's earlier words had made that clear, and fitted with Aragorn's disjointed thoughts upon awakening. It would have been natural for Frodo to call to him, while tending him. He could not have known how the _athelas_ would aid him in reaching a consciousness adrift; Aragorn had not needed to use that property before, when he had bathed Frodo's shoulder at Weathertop. Yet Frodo had somehow sensed that potential. What is more, he had somehow harnessed it to his will. Aragorn could not begin to think how the hobbit had managed it.

Aragorn turned his gaze towards Merry, crouching at Frodo's side, eager for instructions. Aragorn steadied his breath. "Have you more water?"

"Some," said Merry instantly. "A bit in the pan over there. I've also some _athelas_ infusion left, in the cup near Pip."

"Make the clean water hot." Aragorn shifted. The pain was sharp, but he could bear it. "We will add the infusion you have to it, and bathe Frodo's side."

Merry hesitated. "That's all the water we have left. Sam has gone looking for more, but I've no idea how long that might take."

"We must trust Sam to find some. Frodo needs our help now."

Without a word, Merry dashed away to a pack near the fireside. Aragorn steadied his breath, and eased himself up on one hip. He looked down at Frodo, curled on his side. He looked frail, so young. Yet he had found Aragorn's spirit where it had been wandering, and called him home. And he had done more. Aragorn could feel as much, in the tingling in his skin. The _athelas_, under Frodo's innocent hand, had knitted his damaged flesh together, binding it into something strong enough to bear the fragile essence that was his mortal soul. Frodo had called him, and his touch had healed him—this hobbit, this tiny being. Aragorn could scarcely absorb the strangeness of it.

He recalled his dream. The glowing being, with his strange, deep eyes, bearing the track of evil in his side. With a start, Aragorn knew that it had been no dream. By some grace, he had seen Frodo in truth. He was not the foolish creature that had so alarmed Aragorn in Bree, flaunting the Ring almost carelessly, regardless of the danger it called upon them all. At least, he was much more than this. Assuredly part of him was naïve. Yet the hobbit had impressed Aragorn more the longer they remained in each other's company. Despite Frodo's poor introduction of himself, Aragorn had come to appreciate the thoughtfulness that underlay his actions. And, though he had fallen briefly under the Ringwraith's spell, Aragorn could not but admire how stubbornly the hobbit had resisted what Aragorn knew to be a mortal wound. His recent vision had reaffirmed this certainty, and filled him with renewed horror. Evil continued to work in the hobbit. For Frodo to resist it, against such challenges as this journey had posed, was little short of astounding.

A clink drew his attention; Merry had positioned another pan across the coals.

"This will take a few minutes to heat." As Merry turned back towards him, Aragorn could see now that the hobbit was injured; he held himself in a stiff, unnatural manner. Yet he appeared determined to say nothing of his hurts—a resolution that Aragorn had already made for himself. Perhaps they weren't so different after all, these little creatures and Men.

"Well done." Aragorn measured his breath, to minimize strain on his ribs. "There are some woolen underclothes in my pack. Would you bring them, please?"

"Right away." Merry scurried past to comply.

Bracing himself on one arm, Aragorn shifted Frodo's blanket and jacket to reach the left shoulder, which faced upward. He had but to touch the material to feel the bitter cold rising from beneath the closed shirt. This is what was taking him, this frigid bite of the dead. How unjust that would be—after all his suffering, for this gentle soul to be bound in endless agony to the tortures of vengeful spirits.

Aragorn loosened the buttons of Frodo's shirt. He worked awkwardly, one-handed (as he remained propped on his other arm), and the buttons were small. Aragorn hovered over the unconscious hobbit. "Forgive me," he whispered. "I did not know."

Gandalf had known. The certainty flashed through Aragorn without question. Had the wizard not told him that Frodo was the finest hobbit in the Shire? Yet all Aragorn had seen, when he had come upon Frodo in person, was a fool, toying recklessly with forces he could not begin to understand. Aragorn had greeted him with barely concealed disdain. _If this was the Shire's finest_, he had thought, _then pity the Shire!_ He had missed, in that outrageous first meeting, the gifts that to Gandalf must be as clear as the radiance of Frodo's unveiled spirit.

Yet perhaps it was fated for Aragorn to be so blind, when the hobbit himself remained so oblivious of his hidden gifts. The strength, the adaptability—the surprising resourcefulness which had been, day by day, revealed to Aragorn, seemed to be completely unguessed by their owner. Frodo almost certainly had no inkling of what Gandalf, and now Aragorn, saw him as: a being filled with light, possessed of a rare strength and the will to call Aragorn back.

Frodo's shirt was open, but there was little Aragorn could do, until the water heated. Softly, he stroked the hobbit's cheek—petal soft, as in his dream. What an incongruous shell, to house such a bold and selfless spirit. Aragorn felt tears sting his eyes. He repented, humbled by the proof of his arrogance. Yet, however blind his eyes had been, his heart must have recognized the truth, when it had moved him to swear fealty, back at the inn at Bree. At least Aragorn now knew for whom he had pledged to lay down his life. How ironic. For the promise thus far had been kept, based on nothing but Aragorn's given word. And though Aragorn might now need to turn that promise on end, at least he was granted to know the person he was betraying, rather than perform the awful deed in ignorance.

Aragorn leaned close. "Forgive me," he breathed into the upturned ear. "I did not see."

He stroked the curls gently, hoping against hope that the hobbit would wake. For if he passed into the wraith world—Aragorn swallowed hard. His final act of faithfulness, to this marvelous being, would be to take the hobbit's life himself, to preserve him from the forces of darkness. Only by so doing could any part of Frodo be saved. Aragorn bowed his head.

"Forgive me," he whispered.

-0-0-0-

A/N: All quotes from other characters that Aragorn hears in his dreams are taken from various chapters and Appendix A in _The Lord of the Rings_.


	12. Chapter 12

Sam plodded wearily up the hill. The filled flasks dragged at him, more than they should have. Particularly Strider's, the broad strap of which was eating into his shoulder. Sam eased it to one side, where it quickly began to dig into its new location.

Sam's quest for water had led him on quite a search. He'd been forced to descend nearly to the Road before he heard the welcome gurgle of a spring. He turned towards the woods-shrouded gully at that point, and followed the noise until he located the source. Out of a ferny niche, several trickles of water spouted from the hill. After falling a short distance, they pattered onto slick stone, and sank again within a few yards into the plant-choked soil lining the bottom of the channel.

Slow-flowing it might be, but it was moving water, and it was clean. Sam spent a long while filling each flask—particularly the Ranger's, which was three times the size of one of theirs. At last he shouldered his burdens, arranging the flasks to distribute their weight across his body, and began the slow trek up the mountainside.

He had not gone far before the snap of a twig made him start. He halted, turning to stare towards the noise that had come from the woods—now flanking his left during his upward climb. It was likely nothing—a squirrel or some other forest creature. Mayhap it was a pine cone falling, and hitting a rock.

A crack sounded within a dark thicket nearby, as of a branch snapping. Sam went rigid, and listened with all his ears. Faintly, he perceived the push of a large body through the underbrush, and the thump of a heavy footfall.

All weariness left him, just that quick. Sam looked about wildly. He was out in the open, lit by starlight, with no hope of reaching the protective eaves of the forest before whatever it was that was coming could push its way through. Glancing about desperately, he spied a boulder, half buried in the turf a few feet away. It made a poor hiding place, but perhaps it would serve. In fact, it _must_ serve; the footfalls were getting louder. Sam hurled himself behind the boulder. Cautiously, he peered round the edge.

Something black and shaggy pushed its way through the trees. Sam's heart pounded. If it was a wolf, it would scent him for sure. Sam had heard about wolves. They could track you by sight, scent, or sound. On the welcome side, the shadow was too small to be another troll. Sam wouldn't have stood no chance at all against a troll. A narrow head pushed its way through the leaves that grew thickly at the edge of the forest. Sam shrank against the rock. The shadow seemed to look his way. In the darkness, he could almost make out the two dark eyes in its head, turned towards him. The head was about four feet off the ground. It was a huge wolf, and it was tracking Sam.

The wolf whickered. Taking another stride, it stepped into the starlight.

Sam could have wept for joy. "Bill!" he cried.

Upon hearing his name, the pony picked up its pace to meet him. Sam bounded forward. Too soon. Even as he ran happily to greet his friend, there came another sharp snap from deeper in the thicket.

Sam stopped dead. Something was following Bill into the clearing—something big. It loomed like a ghost against the night-enshrouded woods—a huge, pale shadow. Sam stood goggle-eyed. Caught in the open dead to rights, he watched it come.

It was another horse. Not a pony, but a proper horse, tall and sleek and wonderfully large. All white it was. Gems flickered on its headstall as it thrust its regal neck into the starlight. Its mane hung in thick, wavy locks on its glossy hide; the nostrils flared and snorted. Dark, wide-set eyes regarded Sam with playful intelligence. The splendid animal arched its neck, and carried its rider proudly into the clearing.

Sam stared. He didn't need his meeting with Gildor and his folk to know that he was looking at an Elf. If the horse had a noble bearing, it was nothing next to this fellow. Tall he was—taller than Strider, Sam thought, though it was hard to be sure with him seated. Golden hair swept over his shoulders, and his face was that beautiful, fine and fierce together, that Sam could hardly bring himself to look upon it. From the rider's hair and face and body came a gentle glow, as if he drew the stardust to him and sent it out again, all around him in a silver mist. The soft chime of bells from somewhere on their gear added to the otherworldly impression.

"Greetings." The word cut softly but with perfect clarity through the air. Sam felt as if he were hearing a song, the voice was pitched so musically and exact.

Sam swallowed. "Good evening. Sir," he added hastily.

The rider on his elegant mount came closer. "Does this pony belong to you?"

Sam knew he asked merely out of courtesy, as Bill had already reached Sam and begun to nuzzle his neck. From the gentle way Bill did it, Sam was sure he was saying he was sorry for running off—not that Sam would blame him for that, poor pony.

"That he does, sir." Sam stroked Bill's face beneath its shaggy forelock. "Or rather, he belongs to my master. But we come across a troll earlier, and it was too much for him. Bill took off in one direction, and the rest of us in another, I'm sorry to say."

"Troll!" The melodic voice grew sharp. "Where?"

Sam nodded up the mountainside. "Up the hill a piece. Don't worry, sir, he's dead. Mr. Strider killed him. But most of the party is in pretty poor shape from it, except for me. That's why I went to fetch the water."

"Who is this… Strider?" The Elf was so close, he towered against the stars. He was marvelous fair, like a story come to life. Even in the darkness, his eyes glimmered, as if they were made of starlight themselves. Sam thought he'd get a crick in his neck, looking up so high.

"He's a Man we took up with in Bree. He offered to guide Mr. Frodo and the rest of us—Mr. Merry, Mr. Pippin, and me—to Rivendell."

"Dúnadan," breathed the Elf. His clear eyes fastened on Sam. Sam nearly cringed from the intensity of that glance—then the Elf leaped lightly from the saddle. Now that they were a little more eye to eye, Sam was reassured. That fine-featured face showed expressions that Sam could recognize—relief, for one.

"You are indeed the party I was searching for. My Lord Elrond has sent out riders, west, north, and south, to find you. I came across your pony, running wild upon the Road. I approached him, intending to relieve him of his harness until he could find his way home. But among his gear I found this."

The Elf lifted something from Bill's side: Mr. Frodo's pack, which they had tethered to Bill after his master's wounding. The Elf smiled, and his face turned into something less forbidding, if not exactly inviting. "No Man could wear such a pack as this, and no child would have wandered so far into the unsettled lands. Am I right in supposing that this pack belongs to your master?"

"That's correct, sir. My master was riding Bill, afore the troll spooked him. Mr. Frodo'd been wounded, you see, away back at Weathertop." Sam gulped. "The Black Riders…"

"Black Riders." A fell light sprang into the Elf's eyes. "The servants of the Enemy met your master—yet he lives?"

"Mr. Strider drove them off." Sam could scarcely speak. No wonder folk feared the Elves; the change from beauty to terror, in the blink of an eye, made Sam quail. He gathered his courage to speak on. "But there's some evil working away at him. His wound has closed, but my master grows weaker every day."

"Come!"

On the word, Sam felt himself raised into the air—popped up as if he weighed no more than a feather. The next instant he came down again—across the great white horse's withers. Sam squeaked in startlement, and seized the horse's fluffy mane. He'd never been so high off the ground before; leastways, not on a living creature. Sam could recollect some smials he used to jump off as a lad; those would be about the right height.

In a twinkling, the Elf was mounted behind him, moving lighter than a feather himself—like a cloud, or a wisp of smoke. He murmured a word in Elvish, and the white horse began walking up the hill. Bill fell in behind them, head bobbing as he worked to keep up.

"Your beast is very loyal." The Elf's words fell upon Sam's head like silver raindrops, soft as the bells on his horse's harness. "When I had sung away his fear, he was willing to retrace his steps to find you. But he is weary, and should carry no burdens for a while. Asfaloth will bear us both to your camp."

"Straight on the way you're going, sir. It's a good step better than a mile, I'm afraid."

"So far?" The Elf seemed startled.

Sam shrugged. "We needed the water. Sir."

"I see." The Elf's voice softened. "Forgive me, little friend. In my haste, I have cast my manners aside. How do you call yourself?"

"Samwise Gamgee, but you can call me Sam. And that's Bill, but you know that."

"And this is Asfaloth. I am Glorfindel, of the House of Elrond."

"Well, I'm right glad to run across you, sir, and that's a fact. We're in a proper fix, we are."

"You must tell me about it, as we ride."

-0-0-0-

Merry was growing ever more worried, and Strider wasn't helping.

At first things hadn't seemed so bad. Merry's initial terror, when Frodo had collapsed, had been almost instantly replaced with hope, when he saw that Strider was awake. Frantically, Merry had dashed about, doing all the things that the Ranger requested: making the water hot, collecting their scattered swords, and then bringing the hot water to Strider. While Strider bathed Frodo's shoulder with the _athelas_ mixture, Merry went after Narsil. The blade was tricky to retrieve; the hilt stuck out from under the troll, but Merry needed to use Sam's lever to shift the gory neck off it, before he could slide it free with his foot. He then returned Narsil to its owner, and went on to clean Frodo's and Pippin's blades.

That was now many minutes ago. For the longest time Strider lay propped on his side, looking into Frodo's face, and occasionally sponging his shoulder or forehead. The look in the Man's eyes was anxious. Narsil gleamed at his side, ready to hand; the Man had not asked for his scabbard. Through the long minutes, Strider gazed unceasingly at Frodo.

The image unsettled Merry. Forcibly quelling his fears, Merry finished his task. The two troll-fouled swords had been burnished (as had Narsil) with clove oil from the Man's pack. Merry now oiled his own blade, dividing his attention between watching Frodo and Pippin for signs of change. Unfortunately, Merry felt some changes within himself—and not for the better. His recent activity had further stressed his side. It burned continually, and stabbed him with multiple knives each time he took a breath. Worse, he seemed to be coming down with fever. He could feel it laying hold of him, making his head feel light even as it bobbled on his neck, as if too heavy to hold itself upright. Twice now he'd caught himself with a jerk, eyes snapping open before his head toppled forward. He couldn't succumb now. He was all that Pippin had, and Frodo. Himself, and the eerily silent Ranger, frowning as he studied Frodo's face.

What was he looking for? Surely Frodo's return to consciousness didn't demand _that_ level of concentration; they'd hear him wake, if nothing else. Yet Strider never looked away from Frodo, his cousin's face serene in repose. The intensity of Strider's interest unnerved Merry.

Merry sheathed his blade awkwardly, fighting the flashes of pain. He set it aside carefully. Making his voice calm, he asked, "Frodo _is_ going to be all right, isn't he?"

The Ranger's voice was gruff. "I don't know."

This was not the reassurance Merry was looking for. "What happened?" He had been saving his voice, not liking the strain talking put on his ribs, but he had to discover what was so disturbing the Ranger. "What made Frodo collapse like that? Was it his wound?"

"In part."

Merry waited, but the Ranger said no more. Gently, the Man blotted the cloth against Frodo's face. Merry persevered. "What was the other part?"

Strider sighed unhappily. He met Merry's gaze at last. His eyes looked uncommonly dark, reflecting the flicker of the flames.

"In his attempt to revive me, Frodo sent his spirit out to find mine. While he succeeded in his task, I have not the strength to search for him in return." The Ranger's voice was soft. He spoke haltingly, as if in pain. "I am trying to ease his body, so that he might find his way back to it on his own. But the grip of the Enemy freezes me out. I fear that it may do as much to Frodo, and that his consciousness will never find its way home. The Enemy's hold was strong before this. I fear the events of this evening might prove to be the breaking point for our poor friend."

Merry's mind whirled. He forced himself to speak. "You're saying that Frodo might… die."

"He might already be gone. That is what I watch for. When Frodo revives, will it be his gentle spirit returning—or a wraith under Sauron's command? If that happens, this body, this shell, would no longer be Frodo." He held Merry's eyes. "Do you understand me?"

Merry's heart pounded. "No, I don't. You're saying—" Merry licked his lips. "A wraith?"

"A spirit that is so subject to Sauron's power that there can be no recovery. He will remain forever under the Dark Lord's control, bound beyond any unbinding. Gandalf could not help him then, or the Lord Elrond himself."

Merry felt faint. "But… Frodo…"

"Would cease to be Frodo. He would become as the Black Riders are: a slave to Sauron. Such an occurrence would put the Ring in the hands of a newly born enemy, one who would be compelled to betray us. If that happens, we must be prepared."

Merry's mouth went dry. "Prepared."

Strider answered softly, "To do what we must."

Merry stared, jaw slack with horror. Frodo… a Black Rider. Merry could scarcely believe it. Yet the alternative—Strider's… solution—was too horrible even to contemplate.

Suddenly Merry recalled Frodo's jest, as the party had approached Weathertop: _'I hope the thinning process does not go on indefinitely, or I shall become a wraith.'_ Merry remembered Strider's angry response, censuring Frodo's light words.

_He feared this might happen,_ Merry thought, with sudden dread. _He knew what the Black Riders were._

Merry felt sick. Only the knowledge that he had nothing in his stomach relieved him of the certainty that he would vomit.

A feeble cough drew his attention. Merry dragged his gaze away from the Ranger, to glance to his other side. Pippin's eyes squinched, and his head twitched.

Instantly, Merry had his hands at each side of Pippin's face. He swallowed against a dry throat, trying to find his voice. "Pippin, it's Merry. Can you hear me?"

His young cousin coughed again, then twisted suddenly to the side. His jaws gaped and his body heaved, but nothing came up. Pippin, too, had not eaten for many hours.

Merry rubbed a hand over Pippin's back as he spasmed. "It's all right, Pip. You're going to be all right."

_Please be all right,_ he added mentally, still horrorstruck over what might happen to Frodo. _Please, don't let me lose you both!_

At last Pippin stopped retching. He lay curled on his side, eyes closed, panting quickly. Merry stroked the curls away from his face. "Pippin? Pip? Are you awake?"

Pippin swallowed, then whimpered, "Merry?"

Thin and weak as it was, Pippin's voice filled Merry with joy. His closed his eyes against the sudden start of tears. His breath hitched, and he fought to control himself. He rubbed his palm up and down Pippin's narrow back. "It's all right," he said huskily. A tear escaped his shut lids, and slid hotly down his cheek. "You're all right, Pip. Rest easily, now. You're safe."

Pippin shivered. His mouth worked, then he whispered, "You're alive."

Merry blinked rapidly, as another tear slid down the other cheek. "That's right, Pip. I'm alive—thanks to you."

Pippin continued to shake. It seemed more a reaction to his injuries, than to cold. "Frodo," he breathed.

Merry cast a glance over his shoulder. Strider had resumed his silent vigil, staring into Frodo's unconscious face, looking for a sign.

Merry turned back. "He's alive, Pip. Frodo is alive, and Strider, too. Everyone is alive, save for the troll. Sam has gone to find water, but the rest of us are here."

Pippin shuddered. "Hurts," he gasped.

Merry stroked his face. "I know it does, dear one." He glanced at the fire, where his tin cup rested near enough to the coals to keep it warm. His experiment with the jerky had produced a thin, almost clear broth. Earlier, Merry's stomach had rumbled for the jerky, but now, between his growing fever and dread, he doubted he could touch it.

Merry brushed Pippin's curls behind his upturned ear. "I made a bit of broth, Pip. It's warm. Will you try some?"

Eyes closed, Pippin barely shook his head.

"You sure?" Merry persisted. "Just a sip? It will make you feel better."

"Too… dizzy."

"All right." Merry dropped a kiss on his temple. "Don't worry about it. Rest now."

Pippin gave a shuddery breath that might have started out as an acknowledgement, then settled onto his blanket. He continued to breathe rapidly, obviously in pain. Merry winced in sympathy. Gently, he tucked Pippin's cloak around him.

He started at a rustle behind him. Strider had seized Narsil. He raised it in his hand, firelight flickering along its short but lethal length.

"_No!_" Merry staggered to his feet, nearly falling as knives of pain cut through him. He stumbled forward desperately. _Strider must not do it!_

Strider gazed fiercely at him, the sword poised over Frodo. "Hush!" he whispered.

Merry halted, confused. For the Ranger had tensed and looked away—down the hill, into the night. The realization that Frodo had been spared, even for the moment, made Merry weak with gratitude. Yet that feeling gave way to a new terror: _Someone was coming._ Sick with apprehension, Merry moved closer to Frodo.

He could hear it now: footfalls from farther downhill. That dashed Merry's hope that it might be Sam returning; no hobbit would make such a racket. Yet his next thought, that another troll might have found them, gave way to puzzlement. Was he hearing… bells?

Beside him, Strider let out a breath. He looked at Merry. With a start, Merry saw a smile on the Man's stern face. Strider lowered Narsil to the ground—to Merry's indescribable relief.

"Friends have found us," he said.

Merry merely stared. Stunned by recent developments, he broke the Ranger's gaze to peer into the night, wondering who these friends might be. For all Strider's reassurance, Merry remained tense. His fingers twitched. Had the Man not kept his hand on the hilt, Merry would have snatched the blade away from him, to the cook fire with his fears about Frodo.

Friends may have found them. But, looking at Frodo's helpless form, Merry felt far from safe.


	13. Chapter 13

Sam knew something was amiss even before he reached the campsite. As they neared the glow of the fire, he heard Mr. Merry cry out, and craned his neck to see ahead. Sure enough, only one hobbit was standing near the fire's edge. Mr. Strider was awake and looking round at them, Sam was pleased to see, although Sam weren't nearly so happy about the bundle at Mr. Strider's side. Sam could guess only too well what (or rather _who_) that might be.

He turned to address the Elf over his shoulder. "What did I tell you, Mr. Glorfindel? My master's strength gave out, just as I said it would. It's his way to overtax himself, until there's nothing left to give. I knew we wouldn't find him upright."

"You appear to know your master well." The Elf's voice was gentle, even as Asfaloth picked up his pace to reach the fireside. "Do not give yourself over to worry. Healing skills are not my gift, yet I will render such aid as I am able."

"We can use any help we can get, I won't lie to you."

Sam's ride with the Elven lord had quieted his fears somewhat. Glorfindel radiated confidence and calm. The longer Sam was in his company, the less intimidated Sam felt. By the time they reached the rough encampment, he thought of the Elf as a friend. True, Sam didn't feel as easy with him as he had with, say, Mr. Gildor's folk, but then, Mr. Glorfindel seemed a whole different kind of Elf from the ones he'd met in the Shire—deeper somehow, more mysterious and magical. It was somewhat like Asfaloth being a whole different order of horsekind from Bill—much as Sam admired the pluck of his loyal pony.

As Asfaloth strode into the firelight, Mr. Strider cried joyfully, "Glorfindel!"

"_Mae govannen, Dúnadan._" The Elf paused. His eyes roamed over the enormous body, sprawled behind their campsite. He said dryly, "Elladan's troll was bigger."

Mr. Strider winced as he sat up. "My friend, I am so overjoyed to see you, I will argue with nothing that you say."

"Allow me, Sam," said the Elf lord, just as Sam, fidgeting, was beginning to wonder how he could break into the conversation and beg to be let _down_. "I know you are anxious to check on your master."

"Thank you, Mr. Glorfindel." Sam clasped the strong, slender hand, clutching tight as it lowered him alongside the powerful forelimb of his mount. Sam marveled that he had been astride an animal whose legs were longer than Sam's whole body.

As Sam found his feet, Mr. Strider said, "When I heard the horses approaching, I had hoped there might be another of your people with you—delighted though I am that you have returned our faithful Bill to us."

"Lord Elrond keeps the valley, as he must," replied Glorfindel. "The rest of us he has sent thither and yon in search of you, all who could stand against the Nine."

Sam dropped his flasks and rushed to Mr. Frodo's side, even as Strider said eagerly, "Gandalf has reached Rivendell, then?"

"Nay, not when I had departed—but that was nine days ago. We learned of your journey from Gildor Inglorion, who sent messages ahead as swiftly as he might."

Sam had no mind for further news, once he had got a look at his master. Mr. Frodo was worse off than Sam had suspected—far worse than he had feared. Mr. Frodo's shirt was open to reveal his shoulder. That whole side of his chest, and down his left arm, emitted such intense cold that it Sam winced to touch it.

Mr. Merry knelt painfully beside Sam. He dipped the washcloth into the pan of water while Mr. Strider and the Elf caught each other up on events. Tenderly, the Bucklander sponged Mr. Frodo's shoulder with it.

Sam scarcely minded him, he was that worried about Mr. Frodo. His master was deeply unconscious. His pulse was thin and weak; he barely breathed.

"What happened to him?" Sam asked Mr. Merry in an undertone. "He weren't near this bad off when I left."

"I'm not sure." Mr. Merry hitched a breath. "He did something to bring Strider round, I don't know precisely what—"

"Here now." Puzzled by the strain in the other's voice, Sam had finally taken a good look at Mr. Merry. The Brandybuck heir was sweating, skin pale, barely able to keep his head up. Swiftly, Sam removed the cloth from his hand. "I'll see to this. You should lie down yourself, Mr. Merry. You look in a world of hurt, if you don't mind my saying. I can tend to Mr. Frodo."

"No, Sam. I have to… keep near Frodo."

"Well, that's a lot of foolishness, if I may make so bold." Sam bathed Mr. Frodo's shoulder and side. "We've got Mr. Strider, and Mr. Glorfindel now. They'll know what needs to be done."

Mr. Merry opened his mouth, and hesitated. Firmly, he said, "I want to stay close at hand."

Sam refreshed the cloth to sponge Mr. Frodo's forehead. "You keep pushing yourself the way you been doing, and you're going to end up in as bad a state as either of the others. That won't do no one a bit of good, Mr. Merry, and you know it."

The tail end of the Elf lord's sentence diverted Sam's attention. "… must move him farther from this troll."

He looked up to find that Mr. Glorfindel had dismounted. Even so, he towered over the prone Ranger and the crouching hobbits. Sam had the uncomfortable feeling that he'd feel just as small in comparison, were he to stand straight up, on his toes.

"Your current condition aside, Dúnadan," Glorfindel said, "you cannot expect to reach him while you wallow in the miasma of this beast. A pall of evil poisons the air. It is a wonder that any of you can breathe."

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Glorfindel," Sam interrupted. "But until you came along, there weren't enough of us in command of our sense or our limbs to move anyone farther then we already done."

"Then let us do so now, as quickly as might be."

The Elf lord stooped, and Sam made room for him. Gently, he collected Mr. Frodo into his arms, making sure to wrap him well in the blanket. He rose as easily as if Mr. Frodo weighed no more than a leaf. Mr. Merry rose with him, with a deal more difficulty. He didn't take his eyes off Mr. Frodo for a second. His concern was beginning to disturb Sam. Had more happened during his absence than Mr. Merry had told him about?

As the Elf straightened, the light of the fire fell upon the Ranger's blade, lying clean and shining on his blanket. The Elf hesitated. "You brought Narsil."

Mr. Strider said quietly, "I thought it fitting."

Glorfindel paused. "Let us hope you will not need to use it." So saying, he strode away from the fire, headed downhill with Mr. Frodo in his arms.

Sam watched him go, mouth agape. Not need to use it? Had he forgotten the troll he'd just been talking about, that Mr. Strider had killed? How did he think that had happened—Mr. Strider had talked it into beating itself to death with a rock?

The next moment, Mr. Merry crossed Sam's line of sight. He had his arms wrapped round his middle, and he followed the Elf with a determined expression. He moved as quickly as he was able—which was not very fast, as every variation in the terrain seemed to give him trouble, and he stumbled as often as not. Sam gritted his teeth, but let him be. It seemed that every single one of his betters was determined to drive themselves into the ground. Well, Sam couldn't do aught about that. He'd help them out regardless, and be around to pick up the pieces after they were done.

Mr. Strider was taking his time getting up. He'd thrown back the blanket over him, so Sam could see he was wearing some kind of skin-fitting woolens; they looked like underclothes against cold weather. They covered the Ranger from neck to ankle, but Sam could guess at the Man's hurts without needing to see 'em. Mr. Strider moved like he was made of wood. He could scarcely bend in the middle, and his right leg was stretched stiff and unnatural upon the cloak on which he lay. He shifted his weight, but couldn't seem to find a position that would give him leverage enough to stand.

It seemed it was Sam's day for sass. Yet he doubted what else he could do, seeing as everyone else in the party had given their good sense the evening off, and were set and determined to do themselves an injury.

"Mr. Strider," Sam began, and blushed to hear the sharpness of his tone. Nevertheless, he plunged on. "Any fool can see you're in no shape to be walking over this kind of ground, with the hurts you have. You'll trip on a boulder and knock your head, and then where would we be?"

"I can carry myself, Master Samwise," responded the Ranger, subsiding with a grunt. Sam noticed he hadn't even managed to raise one hip off the ground, but Sam didn't need to be pointing that out to him.

"Begging your pardon, sir, but my master needs you, in as much of a piece as possible. It's just plain cussedness as makes you want to stand on your own. Let me fetch Mr. Glorfindel. He'll help you down to the new camp. It's silly to break your head for no reason, not when so many other folk are depending on you."

Mr. Strider eased back on one elbow. As uncomfortable as he looked, he gave Sam a smile. "You've always spoken your mind to me, haven't you, Samwise?"

"Well… mayhap I have. But it's my job to care for Mr. Frodo, as best I'm able."

"And you won't let anything get in the way of that. I understand." Mr. Strider's smile faded, and he relaxed. "Rest easy, Sam. I will make no further attempt to move myself, until Glorfindel arrives to help."

Sam backed away. "That's good of you. Thank you, sir."

Mr. Strider remained quiet, but Sam's puzzlement grew. Why did the Ranger look so sad just then? It worried Sam, even more than Mr. Merry's restlessness. Sam was confident that Mr. Strider wouldn't try to move on his own. Why, then, did he feel as if he'd just lost the argument?

As Sam stepped away, Bill lifted his head and whickered. He stood on the very edge of the circle of firelight, as if reluctant to come one step closer to the troll. Beside him, Asfaloth nuzzled the turf, hunting for grass—not that he would find much to eat around here.

"You rest too, Bill," Sam told him. "We'll have work for you to do, soon enough."

Leaving the horses, Sam rounded the fire to the blanketed bundle that showed where the final member of their party lay. Mr. Pippin rested on his side, panting with light, quick breaths. Sam knelt beside him. "Mr. Pippin?"

Though the young hobbit's eyes were closed, Sam felt certain he were awake. Gently, he brushed Mr. Pippin's curls off his forehead. The young Took's skin felt moist. "Mr. Pippin, sir? Are you awake?"

A thin whine escaped the parted lips. "Merry?"

Sam petted the tweener's hair, though his stomach twisted itself in knots. "It's Sam Gamgee. I'm powerful glad to see you awake at last."

Mr. Pippin whispered, "Frodo…"

"They've gone ahead to make a new camp. Mr. Glorfindel—he's an Elf what found us. He thought it best that we move farther from this troll, to a place where the air's fit to breathe."

Mr. Pippin shivered. His voice held barely a breath of sound. "We might… lose him, Sam."

Sam felt a rush of fear. Deliberately, he fought it down. "That we won't, Mr. Pippin. They've only gone down the hill a piece. Come along, now." Sam knelt to get his arms under Mr. Pippin as best he might. "Rest you easy. I'll get you there, right enough."

Mr. Pippin said no more, though he cried out when Sam shifted his head. Sam froze, but Mr. Pippin just went back to breathing too fast. Gently as he could, Sam gathered Mr. Pippin, blanket, cloak and all, in his arms. With an awkward step, he was upright. After Sam's bit of rest on the Elf horse, the Took seemed no heavier to carry than Sam's own pack. Carefully Sam rounded the fire, heading downhill.

Mr. Strider had got himself into a sitting position, but he weren't doing much save for gathering whatever gear was in reach, and stowing it in one pack or another. He didn't spare a glance for Sam, just continued what he was doing. Which was fine by Sam, as he had his hands full, so to speak.

Bill took a step to follow him, as Sam moved away. "Stay, Bill," he called. "I'll be back soon enough." The pony stopped, watching Sam go with mournful eyes.

As Sam left the circle of firelight, Mr. Pippin shuddered against Sam. Sam couldn't help feeling a flash of anger towards Mr. Merry—why wasn't he looking out for his kinsman? There had been Mr. Strider to look after Mr. Frodo at the fireside. Much as Sam's world centered round Mr. Frodo, it seemed to Sam that they all needed to look after one another, the spot they were in.

Well, there was naught for it. The night hadn't been short. Like as not it was Sam's own weariness as was making him sharp. He hugged Mr. Pippin to him, and stepped down the hill.

He went cautiously at first. His few minutes at the fireside had robbed him of his night vision, so Sam took it nice and slow. For all that, he near jumped a mile when a tall shape suddenly loomed in front of him out of the darkness. Smothering a yelp, he realized just in time that it was Mr. Glorfindel, on his way back to the camp.

"Is Mr. Frodo all set?" Sam asked him.

"He's resting, and Merry is with him." The Elf came closer, then suddenly shrank. Sam realized that he had gone down on one knee. He heard the click of a stopper, then the swirl of liquid. "I have something for your friend: _miruvor_, as I gave you earlier."

Sam indeed remembered the mouthful of liquor that the Elf had given him during their ride up the hill. It had no taste, giving Sam the oddest sensation, like drinking liquid air. Yet he'd hardly swallowed before he felt the exhaustion of his day's adventures fall away from him. He doubted he'd be carrying Mr. Pippin right now, were it not for that earlier draught. The Elf had been kind enough to follow it with a bite of Elvish bread, which was filling enough for Sam, for all of Mr. Glorfindel's apologies.

"I know your friend is ill," said the Elf, "but this drink will help him, if he can tolerate it."

"Come along, Mr. Pippin," Sam encouraged, holding the younger hobbit close to steady his head. "Give it a try. It'll make a world of difference, and I ought to know."

Mr. Pippin whimpered, but made no other protest. Mr. Glorfindel leaned close, tipping a mere capful of the liquor into Mr. Pippin's slack mouth. Quickly, his hand moved to massage the hobbit's throat; Sam could hear the gulp as the fluid went down.

Sam heaved a sigh. "Well done, Mr. Pippin. That'll soon put you right."

"I will give him more later, if he can tolerate it." The Elf rose. "I have given your other friends a sip as well, and the Dúnadan I will also treat. I fear that most of your party is sorely hurt."

Sam felt suddenly embarrassed that he alone sported no wounds. "I kept back from the fight to watch over Mr. Frodo. The others—"

The Elf's hand on his shoulder stopped him. "Do not apologize, Sam. Were you injured as well, it is likely that some of your friends would not have made it as far as they have. Rejoice in your good fortune. I am sure that none of them begrudges you that."

"Well, you can't say fairer than that," Sam muttered, still feeling painfully guilty. "I'd best settle Mr. Pippin, then come back and help bring down the gear."

"Asfaloth and Bill can help with that. You needn't carry all burdens yourself, young Sam."

Now was not the time to point out to the Elf that Sam could no more load gear onto Asfaloth than he could fly. The best he might manage would be to tie something to the horse's flowing tail—he could imagine how well that might "fly" with Asfaloth.

"Thank you, sir. I'll do what I can."

The Elf clapped him on the shoulder, then vanished into the night, with even less noise than a stealthy hobbit might make. One moment he was there, and the next, Sam was alone under the starlight, with Mr. Pippin in his arms.

He gave the young Took an encouraging squeeze. "We'll get you settled, Mr. Pippin. Things are looking up for us, now that an Elven lord is here."

The wounded hobbit groaned. Sam felt his heart break. He eased himself down the hill, moving more confidently now that his night vision had come back.

"Aren't you the outrageous thing?" Sam chattered. "A-flingin' yourself off the ledge onto a troll like that. They'll be making songs about it, Mr. Pippin, mark my words. Peregrin Took, the only hobbit to take on a troll by himself. If Mr. Merry don't throw a hundred-weight feast on account of it, I'll think he's soft in the head."

Mr. Pippin lay quiet; Sam had no idea if his words were helping, or even heard.

Suddenly, he discerned another voice in the night. It was faint, coming from somewhere ahead of him. As Sam listened more closely, he thought it sounded like weeping. All his fears sprang up anew.

Sam worked his way nearer, as quick as he might. The starlight showed him a fairly level area, in a hollow beneath some great rocks. A hobbit lay there, on his back, while another knelt over him, clasping his hand. It was Mr. Merry, and he was pleading through his tears.

"Come back, Frodo. Please come back. I couldn't bear it if… Oh, what am I to do? Even were I to stop them, would it save you in the end? If I could stay their hands, should I do it—knowing that such an act might doom you to unending torment? How could I bear being the cause of that? If I must lose you, I would have it be clean. Yet how can I stand by, and watch you done to death? My heart won't let me, Frodo dear. I am afraid I shall do something foolish, that will lead only to greater harm. Help me, Frodo. Please come back. Take this choice from me."

Sam had reached the edge of the hollow. He swallowed hard. He didn't follow exactly what Mr. Merry was going on about, but its meaning was clear enough to Sam. His master weren't nearly out of harm's way. In fact, if Mr. Merry's distress was to be believed, his master was probably in greater danger right now than at any time since Weathertop, when that undead king went after him.

Sam cleared his throat. Mr. Merry whirled towards the noise, his eyes glinting in the starlight. "Sam." Almost immediately he relaxed—though not entirely, Sam could see. "Is that Pippin with you?"

"Yes, sir. Let me find a likely spot for him."

Mr. Merry nodded, then turned back to Mr. Frodo. Squelching his fears, Sam concentrated on finding a spot that was level and smooth, to set Mr. Pippin down. There—on the opposite end of the hollow. With his stomach all in turmoil, Sam crossed to the place. Carefully, he sank to his knees, mindful not to jostle Mr. Pippin. Though Sam listened intently, he could hear no further remarks out of Mr. Merry.

Sam settled Mr. Pippin on his cloak. When he moved to tuck the blanket round, Mr. Pippin startled him by touching his wrist. "Sam," he breathed.

Sam put Mr. Pippin hand back under the blanket. "Just you rest easy, Mr. Pippin. Don't fret yourself. It won't do no one any good."

"Frodo," Mr. Pippin barely whispered. "He… must not… become a wraith."

Sam felt a fierce surge of protectiveness. "Don't you worry, Mr. Pippin. Me and Mr. Merry will see that no harm comes to him."

Mr. Pippin shuddered with the effort, but he forced himself to speak. "That is... what you _cannot_ do, Sam. Don't… save him."

Sam sat on his heels in shock. "_What_ did you say?" Mr. Pippin must be delirious, for him to utter such things.

"If Strider must… take the final step, don't stop him. Don't let Merry stop him." Mr. Pippin's eyes suddenly opened, and his pleading look sent an arrow through Sam's heart. "Don't condemn Frodo to unending torment, Sam. I couldn't bear it. If a choice must be made, we must… let Frodo die."

Sam reeled backwards, he was that bowled over. Mr. Pippin closed his eyes again, but Sam wouldn't have known what to say to him if he hadn't. For one of the few times in his life, he was speechless.

Across the clearing, Mr. Merry held his cousin's hand, and wept.


	14. Chapter 14

Aragorn watched Sam—reliable, unfailing Sam—carry Pippin from the campsite. He knew it was wrong to curse himself for his weakness: one man with a broken sword could not expect to fare well against a troll, no matter how moderate its size. He had hardly hoped to escape alive. Yet his injury had prompted Frodo to endanger himself unnecessarily. Aragorn could no more blame Frodo for his courageous act than he could Pippin, throwing himself in harm's way to protect his friend. However, Frodo's actions had larger ramifications, because of the Ring.

The Ring. Isildur's Bane. Aragorn gritted his teeth, as he stashed whatever materials he could lay hands upon into the appropriate pack. It was a continual source of regret to him that his ancestor, in a moment of ill judgment, should have enabled the spirit of evil to insinuate itself into another age. Aragorn shook his head. How could he blame Isildur, when the wiles of the Enemy were so effective, so subtle and yet pernicious? Even Frodo had his moment of weakness on Weathertop. He had failed to hold out against the Ringwraith's call—he who had shown such extraordinary resistance in the following weeks.

Aragorn paused. He wondered at what point it had occurred to him to compare the hobbit to his revered ancestor. _Even Frodo._ As if Frodo was the stronger of the two.

Gandalf would not be surprised; of that, Aragorn was certain. But Aragorn was a mere Man, and as such would never be granted the time to develop commensurate wisdom with immortal folk, or cultivate the fine appreciation for the many levels of irony that life can hold. _A hobbit to carry the One Ring._ Even Bilbo, dear as he was to Aragorn, seemed laughably unequal to such a task. For Frodo Aragorn had felt mostly pity—until his startling revelation, where the glowing white figure had led him back to consciousness. From this point forward, there could never be "only Frodo" for Aragorn. He continued to be amazed, both by his new understanding, and at how he could have missed it before.

Everything at hand was now packed away. Aragorn looked into the night, and listened. No tremor of a footstep heralded a returning friend. Aragorn fretted, impatient with his weakness. Never mind that he could well have ended up dead; Aragorn needed to be doing something, and this enforced inactivity galled him.

He shifted himself tentatively. The leg was stiff, but might hold him. The ribs were a different matter. They were broken; Aragorn knew the feel of broken bone. Damn the troll, making him a pillow for its final fall! Things were not well with his head, either. His skull throbbed, fore and aft. He became dizzy when he lifted his head, and his vision blurred if he moved too quickly.

Aragorn listened again. No footfalls. With a sigh, he lifted his hand towards Glorfindel's horse, snuffling the turf nearby. "Asfaloth. _Tulo sí._"

With a gentle whicker, the white stallion advanced with lowered head. He extended his neck to touch Aragorn's outstretched hand with his muzzle. The soft nostrils fluttered against Aragorn's palm. Gently, the Ranger stroked the velvet skin. "_Indóme le ortho nin am?_"

Asfaloth puffed a breath, then moved to stand near the blanket. Aragorn reached for the stirrup. "_Daro, nin mellon._" He walked his hands up the stirrup leather, to raise himself from the ground. Pain flared in his side, but at least he had pulled himself partially upright. "_Pad hi._"

Obediently, the horse stepped forward, moving slowly. His motion dragged Aragorn fully upright, much to the relief of his complaining ribs. Taking his weight onto his good leg, Aragorn clutched the saddle as a wave of dizziness swept over him. "_Daro!_" he gasped, but the wise horse had already halted for him. Aragorn clung to the seat, trying to recover his equilibrium and his breath. Gradually the world stopped whirling.

"Wouldn't it have been easier if you had simply waited for me?"

The soft voice from over his shoulder startled Aragorn nearly out of his skin. The next moment, Glorfindel materialized beside him. He uncapped a flask of _miruvor_ and offered it to the Ranger.

Grasping the saddle with his left hand, Aragorn took the flask in his right. He downed a swig, closing his eyes as he felt its healing properties swirl throughout his body. His dizziness abated, and the protests of his battered flesh grew fainter. He released his grip on the saddle, but still leaned against the patient horse.

"From what I have seen of hobbits so far," Glorfindel continued, "I begin to think them nearly as stubborn as Men."

Aragorn was in no mood for jest. "I am grateful for such stubbornness. Without it, Frodo would long ago have succumbed to the will of the Enemy."

Glorfindel's face grew grim. "What you speak of might already have come to pass, Dúnadan."

"_No!_" Aragorn closed his eyes, embarrassed by his outburst. He steadied himself, before replying. "He is not lost to us, my friend. Not altogether. He is more than he appears." Aragorn met Glorfindel's eyes. "He called me, back from the wilds where my soul was wandering. I saw him in other guise. Brilliant he appeared, as one of the Tareldar might seem to mortal eyes."

Glorfindel's look softened. "You do not need to persuade me. I would have done what I could have before, if only to spare Bilbo the grief of hearing that his heir will never arrive. Now that I learn how dear he is to you, I swear that I will do everything in my power to save him."

"We can call him back, _mellon nin_. We must."

The Elf lord's eyes grew sadder. "That gift I have not. If any calling is to be done, Dúnadan, you alone must do it."

Aragorn set his jaw. "It will be... difficult."

"I will lend you and the hobbit what strength I can," said Glorfindel softly. "The rest will be up to you."

Aragorn nodded, acknowledging.

The Elf clapped him on the shoulder. "Come. Let us get out of this reek. Have you everything you need? We must begin the healing at once, if there is to be any hope of reaching him."

"The _athelas_ leaves are in my pouch—by the fire, there. We should make more water hot."

Glorfindel stooped, and retrieved the flasks that Sam had dropped. The largest of these—Aragorn's—he hung from the saddle. One of the small flasks he handed to Aragorn, along with a bit of waybread. "Drink. Eat. You will need all your strength."

Aragorn took them reluctantly, while Glorfindel carried the other two flasks to the fire. Aragorn nibbled the bread; to his surprise, he could manage it. It must be the _miruvor._ He looked over Asfaloth's back to track the Elf's progress, as he prowled about the fire. "You should see a small pan," he called.

"I see it." The Elf stopped, and curled his lip. "This is your pouch, all black with gore?"

"Yes."

With a shiver, the Elf plucked it open. "I will remove the leaves from it. I dare not bring anything so foul to where the hobbits now lie. It will not serve our purpose."

Swiftly, the Elf tucked the _athelas_ leaves into his belt, then set more water to heat. "What is this cup in the fire?"

Aragorn craned his neck to see. "That is a broth Merry made for his kinsman."

"I will bring it down to them, then. I would have them eat something before the ordeal begins. The _miruvor_ will work better for it, for not all of the hobbits will be able to manage bread." Glorfindel poured the broth into the emptied flask, then swiftly returned to Aragorn, bearing the hobbits' packs. He attached them to Bill's harness with sure movements, while Aragorn finished his sparse meal. "What else?"

Aragorn nodded at the ground. "In my pack, you will find the hilt of the dagger that stabbed him. I kept it, hoping that it might prove an aid to those who would heal him."

"I will study it now, near the fire." The Elf stooped, and then handed Aragorn his blanket and Narsil, but not his cloak. "I do not want even a wisp of this evil vapor at the new site. For that reason, I will leave your belongings here. We can retrieve them when the healing is done, although you may wish to garb yourself in clothes from my pack, rather than try to save your own."

Aragorn nodded. He felt such gratitude for Glorfindel's assistance, it robbed him of words. Carefully, he draped the blanket over Asfaloth's withers, and tied Narsil to the saddle leathers, while the Elf drew forth the remainder of the wraith's blade. With Glorfindel's aid, they might reach Frodo yet. They must.

"There are evil things written on this hilt." Glorfindel's voice was full of revulsion as he studied the haft of the Morgul knife. "I will do what I can to help him, but—" He met Aragorn's eyes. "—the wounds made by this weapon are beyond my skill to heal."

Aragorn paused. "His friends are with him."

"That will be an aid, at least in the beginning."

Aragorn licked his lips. "And if we fail?"

The Elf rose, and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "If we must strike, the blow should come from one who loves him. I do not know the fate of Men or hobbits, but my heart tells me that such a sacrifice—a gift of love—would be enough to free his spirit from the grip of darkness. That would be Frodo's only chance, and the merest chance, if we fail."

Aragorn swallowed, and gave a jerky nod. Placing his arm across the shoulders of the Elf, he hobbled down the hill.

-0-0-0-

Pippin had never felt so sick. He could see a bit, faintly, when he opened his eyes. There were two Sams, two Merrys, and at least two dozen boulders that jumped and jiggled in a nauseating whirl in the starlight. His body throbbed, complaining of the many bruises it had sustained during his unconscious plunge to the cave floor. But they were nothing compared to the splitting in his head. Every moment, Pippin thought he must be sick. Every moment, he felt again that he was in more misery than he could bear.

The situation was altogether horrendous. The voices he had heard so distantly, upon waking, came swirling back to haunt him.

"_A wraith?"_ Merry's voice echoed eerily in his memory. Strider's harsh tones reverberated in answer.

"_A spirit that is so subject to Sauron's power that there can be no recovery. He will remain forever under the Dark Lord's control, bound beyond any unbinding. Gandalf could not help him then, or the Lord Elrond himself."_

At first Pippin had thought it part of the dream, a nightmare experienced upon awakening. But subsequent conversations, scattered and interrupted as they were, had convinced Pippin that what he had heard was the truth.

"_When Frodo revives, will it be his gentle spirit returning—or a wraith under Sauron's command?" _

Pippin had never thought this adventure much more than an extended walking party. It had been shocking when Frodo was injured. That was worst of all. Everything before that—the pursuit across the Shire, Old Man Willow, the barrow wight—somehow it had all worked out. Farmer Maggot was at hand, or colorful Tom Bombadil. Even Strider, with his strange, gloomy face, was a source of comfort and strength. Frodo would be all right—he _had_ to be. People didn't set out for a walk and end up not all right. That was… unthinkable.

"_If that happens, this body, this shell, would no longer be Frodo. Do you understand me?"_

Well, the unthinkable had happened. Pippin felt it with every pulse that drove slivers of pain into his traumatized skull. Frodo was dying. The dear cousin who had bounced Pippin on his knee, who had looked after him with all the fondness and none of the awkwardness of an older brother. Frodo, for whom Pippin had left the Shire, to see him safely on his way. Frodo was dying. Might, in fact, already be dead. Or what would be far worse than dead.

Pippin remembered the barrow. He never spoke of it, to Merry or anyone. But he remembered how it felt, when the arrows had pierced him, and he fell upon the hill. The booted feet of the large Men who were his comrades leaped over and about him, pressing the attack. He remembered what it felt like to be aware and not alive—to be bound to a useless body, unmoving and helpless. And then he had heard the wight's chilling song.

Was this to be Frodo's fate? Locked forever in a sunless tomb, lusting for the life of other creatures who paraded their wholeness before him for so short a time, until they, too, went into the dust? Was Frodo's spirit doomed to look out from the shadowed lintel of his chosen haunt, hating and yet yearning for the sunlight that bathed the open fields? Or even worse—trapped somewhere fouler—in Mordor, perhaps…

Here Pippin's imagination failed him. He summoned up the worst he could recall of their journey through the troll fells—the rocks, the dryness, the bitter wind. Then he peopled it with shadowy shapes that represented Wargs and Orcs, and covered it with darkness. Only Mordor would be worse than that, because the Dark Lord would be there, too. Gloating. Torturing.

Pippin shuddered. "Frodo," he whimpered.

Merry's voice came to him from across the clearing. "Pippin's awake."

"I've got him." Sam's steady tones buoyed Pippin, calming him on his sea of darkness. Pippin heard light footsteps approaching, then gentle, rough-skinned hands tucked the blanket about his chin. "There you are, Mr. Pippin. Don't fret. Sam's here."

Pippin struggled to speak. "Frodo must not..."

Merry said, "Move him closer, would you? I'm not easy having him so far from me."

Sam hesitated only a moment. "Right you are, Mr. Merry."

Sam's hands burrowed under Pippin's neck. Pippin braced himself, yet when Sam lifted, a yelp of pain escaped him.

"Your pardon, Mr. Pippin. Just a moment, and you can stay still."

Gasping against the headache, Pippin felt himself borne and carried. Soon there was earth at his back. His mind whirled, as bad as before the Elf Glorfindel had given him that sip of strange liquid.

A hand rubbed soothingly upon his chest. "There, Pippin, love." Merry's warm tones penetrated his misery. "We're right here. Sam is standing guard over us, as fierce as any Smaug. Nothing will hurt you or Frodo now."

Pippin moved his lips. It was hard to force any sound into his voice. "Not… wraith."

Merry's hand speeded up its rubbing, as if willing away the notion with briskness. "Don't worry, Pip. That won't happen—not to any of us. Will it, Sam?"

Sam didn't answer.

Merry said in a moment, softly, "Do you have any water with you?"

"No, sir. I'm that foolish. Went all that way, then left my flasks at the camp."

"Maybe Glorfindel will bring them."

Pippin heard how Merry's voice hardened when he mentioned the Elf; his cousin couldn't even bring himself to name Strider. How funny it was; with Pippin's difficulty speaking, people just talked over him, as if he couldn't hear.

But Pippin did hear. All of it. Sam's uncertainty, Merry's barely contained fear. Lightly, beneath it all, he could hear Frodo's light breaths, soft and regular. Almost he could imagine that he sensed the beat of his heart. And then he heard another sound, that pricked him to attention, although he couldn't move. A heavy footfall. Someone was coming their way.

"I won't let them do it, Sam." Merry's voice was low and intense. "There has to be another way. You'll help me, won't you? You won't let them… you won't help Frodo to die."

In the drawn-out silence, a hoof clacked against stone. Sam leaped to his feet. His voice cracked with fear as he said, "Here they come."


	15. Chapter 15

Sam was so far beyond terrified, he didn't think there were words for such a state. It seems somewhere along the line, while he was off fetching water most like, the party had decided that if Mr. Frodo couldn't wake up his old self, he would have to be kilt. Mr. Pippin, too sick even to raise his head, had laid it on Sam to do it—Sam! As if he could ever bring himself to do such a thing, even if he'd understood all the whys and what-fors, which he'd be the first to flat-out state he didn't.

And then there was Mr. Merry, who had been looking daggers at Mr. Strider back at the troll camp, as if the Ranger might cut off Mr. Frodo's head at any minute—which for all Sam knew was the plan, him being gone all that time. And Mr. Merry had called on Sam to back _him_ up. But Sam didn't know what to do. How was he to help his poor master, when the folks that was there and talking it over couldn't make up _their_ minds what was best to do?

The white shape of Asfaloth loomed out of the darkness, with the glimmer of the Elf a pace to his right. Between them, Sam could distinguish the shadowy outline of Mr. Strider, propped between the two shimmery forms and hobbling along. Last of all, old Bill plodded after them, head low.

Mr. Merry rose, standing firmly in front of Mr. Frodo as if the Ranger and Elf were Black Riders, come to strike them down. Mr. Glorfindel didn't take notice of that, just spoke to Asfaloth in the musical Elf tongue, so the horse halted.

The Elf pulled a blanket from the horse's withers. "Place this next to Frodo, Sam."

Relieved to have something to do, Sam took the blanket from him. It weighed his arms down; everything belonging to the Big People was just so big! As Sam turned away, he couldn't help but notice the gleam of Narsil, twinkling high upon the horse's gear. He took a step away and all but ran into Mr. Merry. The Bucklander's gaze was also fixed on Narsil, with a look of iron. Sam had no doubt that, had the sword been within reach, Mr. Merry would have tried to do away with it somehow—though Sam hadn't any notion how that might be, when that hobbit could scarcely stand on his own legs. What could he do? Break off the blade at the hilt? Hide it?

Hurriedly, Sam spread the huge blanket next to Mr. Frodo. He used the opportunity to study Mr. Frodo's face, but what he saw didn't comfort him none. Mr. Frodo's expression showed neither awareness nor pain; it was as cold a look as Sam had ever seen. He lay unmoving, like an Elf prince carved out of stone. But he weren't alone. Mr. Pippin, lying at his other side, had stretched out his arm. He still panted with his eyes closed, but his hand clutched Mr. Frodo's, and rubbed it gently with his fingers. Sam swallowed, fighting a surge of grief.

He looked about just in time to scramble out of the way, as Glorfindel led the injured Man to the blanket. Strider hissed as the Elf helped lower him to the ground; their guide was looking near as poor as Mr. Merry. He was starting a fever, too, or Sam didn't know aught about illness.

"Sam," said the Elf, "I set water to heat at the camp. It should be hot by now. Will you please bring it down?"

"Right away, Mr. Glorfindel." Not daring to look at Mr. Merry, Sam dashed away like a rabbit.

It was a relief to be away from the tense undertones of the camp, for all that Sam hated leaving his master. He sprang up the hill, nervously fretting with his fingers, worried sick. If Mr. Pippin was right, Mr. Frodo could become a wraith forever. That didn't bear thinking on. But if Mr. Merry was right, and Mr. Frodo might be made well with some other kind of healing, what could Sam do? He was no match for an Elf lord at any time, were that Elf sound asleep, which this one weren't; even the Ranger, hurt as he was, could probably overmaster Sam without much trouble. Regardless, Sam couldn't see him kicking out at old Strider, not after the Man had near lost his life fighting for them just a few hours earlier. The fact was, Mr. Strider and his Elf friend knew more about this sort of thing than Samwise Gamgee was like to learn in the whole course of his life. Who was he, to go putting his own ideas and wishes ahead of the decisions of the Wise?

Sam's Gaffer was right. He'd always said Sam's brain was not the best part of him. The fact was, Sam was at his best doing a task as others told him to do. No matter the effort—if Sam had his orders, he'd get 'em done, or burst his heart trying. But the other side of it—_deciding_ the course of action—well, Sam knew his strengths, and that weren't it. He was like old Bill in hobbit form—loyal, steadfast, able to work the day long. But ask him to set their direction? You might as well ask a pig to fly, because Sam just didn't have it in him.

He burst upon the old camp sooner than he'd reckoned. The fire was dying down, with no one to tend it. Quickly finding the pan over the dwindling flames, he tested the temperature of the water. It was hot, though not boiling. It would have to do. Mr. Frodo couldn't wait. Sam reached for the cloth that Mr. Merry had used to bathe Mr. Pippin's hurts. Wrapping it round the handle to keep from burning his fingers, Sam lifted the pan, then turned his steps downhill.

He went slower this time, being careful not to spill. Still, it seemed barely two minutes afore he made out the white shape of the Elven horse, guiding him to their new camp like a beacon. Bill drowsed like a shadow at his side.

The camp was oddly silent. Sam paused at the edge of it, trying to catch on.

Mr. Strider sat next to Mr. Frodo, holding his left hand, the cold one. His eyes were closed, and his lips moved, silently. Mr. Merry crouched on Mr. Frodo's other side, holding his cousin's other hand, and watching Strider like a hawk. Mr. Pippin lay beside Mr. Merry. He had his eyes closed, but Sam saw that his hand was clasped into the hold that Mr. Merry had on Mr. Frodo's hand.

Glorfindel knelt by Mr. Frodo's head. His fingertips touched the pale skin of Mr. Frodo's shoulder. His eyes were also closed, and he frowned as his fingers moved from place to place, as if feeling for something.

Hesitantly, Sam stepped forward. The Elf lord opened his eyes, meeting Sam's gaze. Softly he rose, and rounded the little party to meet Sam.

"The calling has begun," he said softly, reaching for the pan. "When the Dúnadan is ready, he will cast the leaves into the water."

Sam turned the handle towards him. "Is Mr. Merry helping him?" The closeness of the group had momentarily lifted his spirits. Mayhap they'd settled their differences after all.

The Elf bent close to take the pan. Softly, he said, "I think your Mr. Merry watches for this." The Elf drew Narsil from the folds of his robe. He offered it, palm up, to Sam. Those keen eyes sought Sam's face questioningly.

Sam stepped back. He couldn't take his eyes off the blade. "No." He shook his head. "No, sir. Don't ask me to. I couldn't—" Sam swallowed, then managed huskily, "I couldn't raise a hand against Mr. Frodo. Not if he were to become a wraith before my eyes."

"If that is your decision, then it must be so."

Sam's desperation spilled over in tears. "Mr. Glorfindel, I don't _know_ what's best to do. I've tried thinking it through and, believe me, sir, I'm just no good at this. Whatever I decide is sure to be wrong, and I'll have to carry the weight of my failure forever."

The Elf kissed Sam's forehead. "Your master is well served. Dear Sam, no one would ever ask of you more than you would freely choose to give. Your willingness alone is a great gift. Such friendship many never find their whole lives."

Sam blinked through his tears, a tendril of hope pushing through his confusion. "So, you're saying I don't have to do it?"

"I say only that you must do what feels right to you, regardless of any other voices. _This_ is your guide." The slender hand, closed about Narsil, lightly touched Sam's chest. "Do what your heart bids you to do, young Sam. It will show you the truth."

Sam felt all his fears come crashing back. "And what if the truth is that Mr. Frodo's got to be kilt? I couldn't do that, sir. Not in a million years."

The Elf's voice was hushed. "I think, Sam, if such an act becomes inevitable, your heart will know that is it not your master you would be killing."

Sam bowed his head, as the Elf's face disappeared behind a waterfall of tears. Something nudged his hand. "Take this."

Automatically Sam reached for it, only realizing as he closed his hand about it that the Elf had given him Narsil. Sam froze. Then, carefully, he took the hilt into both hands. It was much heavier than his barrow blade, having been designed for a two-handed grip. Sam weighed it in his grasp, tipping it up so it caught the starlight. He wanted to hate it, as Mr. Merry did, but he couldn't bring himself to do so. If Mr. Frodo were indeed being carried off to the wraith world, then this shimmering blade might be the only thing that could snap the thread.

The Elf produced his flask. "Take another draught. I gave one to all the others, before we began. Even Frodo took a drop or two."

"Thank you, Mr. Glorfindel." Sam shifted Narsil to his left hand, and wiped away his tears with the back of his wrist. He accepted the proffered flask and downed a swallow. Its effect didn't seem quite the same as before. Earlier, it had removed his weariness. Now, it calmed his heart. Sam drew a raggedy breath, and put his tears away.

The Elf straightened. "Come. Let us join the calling."

Sam nodded. Suddenly, he was aware that he was holding the famous Broken Blade, which would be visible the moment the Elf moved. Quickly, he drew it to his side, and pulled his cloak round to hide it. No sense in getting Mr. Merry all riled. It weren't as if Sam intended to use it. Not unless his heart insisted on it—and Sam was pretty far from that road at the moment.

Glorfindel walked back to kneel by Mr. Frodo's head. Again the Elf extended his fingers, to rest them lightly upon the pale chest of his master. Sam dithered, then took up a position between the Elf lord and Mr. Strider. It only made sense, as Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin made things a mite crowded on the other side. The solid weight of Narsil nudged Sam's thigh as he sank onto the blanket next to the Ranger. Guiltily, he shifted the blade so it wouldn't be in the way. He couldn't help casting a worried glance at Mr. Merry as he did so. Mr. Merry ignored him, dividing his attention between the Man and the unconscious hobbit between him. Obviously, he had missed where Narsil had gone when they had removed it from the saddle. Sam was grateful that Mr. Merry weren't directing that fierce gaze at _him_.

Cautiously, Sam cast a look at Strider. The Ranger seemed far away. He swayed a little as he sat. This close, Sam could finally hear what he was saying. He was calling Mr. Frodo by name, in a voice that carried almost no sound. His dark brows were furrowed, and sweat beaded his face. His head tipped blindly from side to side, as if he was seeking. Sam gulped, knowing that what he sought was Mr. Frodo's absent soul.

Finally, Sam brought himself to look upon his dear master's face. In the starlight, it appeared mask-like, unfeeling. Automatically Sam reached for his hand, the same that Mr. Strider held. It was colder than ice, more frozen than it had ever felt before. Mr. Glorfindel's fingers traveled over his master's chest, probing. The Elf's face was troubled. Sam shuddered. The two healers didn't seem to be making no headway, from what Sam could see. Maybe Mr. Frodo's body _were_ only an empty shell, as everybody had feared.

Mr. Strider stirred, and his eyes opened. At once, his gaze fell upon the pan of hot water that Glorfindel had placed by his side. Not releasing his hold on Mr. Frodo, he took two of the _athelas_ leaves that he had ready in his lap and breathed on them. Then he crushed them, and threw them into the water. Instantly, their fragrance lightened the air, and Sam seemed to breathe easier. But naught else changed. The Elf knelt as he had before, face stoic with eyes closed. Mr. Strider bent closer to Mr. Frodo, and refreshed his grip on his hand. Mr. Merry fixed his gaze on the Man, as if daring him to make a false move. And Mr. Frodo slept on, as untouched by any of it as a marble likeness in a hall.

Sam felt a rush of dread. The calling weren't working. He could see it in the Man's knotted brow, sense it in the calm determination of the Elf—feel it in Mr. Merry's anger, ready to let fly at the first glimpse of a blade. Because he knew it, too, didn't he? That Mr. Frodo's spirit was gone, and not likely to come back.

Sam let his eyes return to the beloved face. Mr. Frodo weren't there. Of that, Sam was now certain. But Mr. Strider… he was searching for him, wasn't he? So, if anyone were to find Mr. Frodo where he'd gone, the Ranger would be him.

The _athelas_ wafted about Sam's head, pleasant and reassuring. It would be so easy, to give in and drift away. To ride that soothing cloud, to another place.

Sam sat up. That was it! All he need do was go to that other place, where Mr. Strider was now. Mr. Strider might know how to get there, but nobody knew Mr. Frodo better than Sam. Maybe Mr. Strider couldn't find him, but Sam could. In any case, he had to try. The only other option lay like cool death under the concealing folds of his cloak.

Sam knelt tall, and placed his arms round the Ranger's neck. Mr. Strider took no notice of him, wandering whatever paths he walked, and calling Mr. Frodo's name. Sam touched his forehead to the Ranger's, and closed his eyes.

Almost at once he saw a stony land, dry and dark. A black cave gaped in the side of a hill. From deep within came ominous gurgling noises, as if from a great beast. A stench issued from the hole, enough to stop Sam's breath. Well, if that's where Mr. Frodo had got to, that's where Sam would go, too.

Sam breathed the _athelas_ fumes, and plunged forward. His last conscious thought was, _Coming, Mr. Frodo!_

-0-0-0-

Aragorn pushed through a dismal forest, thick and forbidding. Strange clicking sounds came from deep within the thorny wood, along with odd whirring noises and the muffled grunts of beasts. Cobwebs lay thick upon the spiny branches. His arms were scratched and bleeding from trying to force a way through. He held up Narsil, and the metal glowed with a reddish gleam. It fell dully on the tough white strands. They resisted his blade, refusing to part.

_Aiya Eärendil Elenion Ancalima! _

Aragorn jumped at the cry. He turned his head, trying to isolate it; he knew only that it had come from somewhere deep inside the forest, beyond this impenetrable wall.

"Frodo!" he called. The name bounced back to him, repelled by the webs.

Someone was behind him. Aragorn turned, thinking it was Asfaloth, but when he looked it was only Bill. The pony watched him with sad eyes.

A voice whispered in his ear, "I can feel something looking at us."

Aragorn whirled, but no one was at hand. Where had he heard that voice before?

Faintly, through the wood, drifted a snatch of song:

_Sing hey! For the bath at close of day  
That washes the weary mud away!_

The sound receded, with peals of laughter ringing through the trees. The voices were high-pitched and merry. Could children be loose in this forest?

Already the woods seemed less gloomy. There was space now between the trees. Behind Aragorn, a golden sun was rising. Its beams shimmered upon the silver barricade of cobwebs. Many of them fluttered in the breeze, like tattered veils. Narsil's blade had cleaved them after all.

A light voice said, "I'm afraid this is only a passing gleam, and it will all go grey again."

But Aragorn answered, "With your hope I will hope."

A vapor drifted over the forest. Beyond it, a panicked voice rasped, "It all comes from here, the stench and the peril. Now for it!"

Aragorn's heart pounded with urgency, but he could not find the speaker. Whoever it was remained hidden behind the veil of thorns. Aragorn filled his lungs and shouted. His voice was powerful, yet higher in pitch than its wont. "_Frodo!_" The call seemed to split the cloudy air. He cried again, "_Frodo!_" Suddenly he knew, it was Sam's voice that called through his mouth.

The gleeful singing started again:

_Better than rain or rippling streams  
is Water Hot that smokes and steams_

The singing seemed much nearer at hand. Aragorn walked towards it, ducking to find a path through the trees. Something walked half a pace behind him—no shape, yet a definite presence. Aragorn felt it at his back, warm as the rays of an unseen sun.

The distant voice cried again, desperately: "Help me, Sam! Hold my hand! I can't stop it."

And Aragorn thought, _Time is running out._

Then the sun rose indeed: bold, strong, blossoming behind Aragorn in radiant glory. It threw his shadow in a rippling shape upon the gnarled limbs of the wood, sharply limning each branch and every naked spine.

A stricken voice gasped, "Are you going to bury me?"

Aragorn answered, "The Shadow I utterly reject."

The waxing light filled all his vision. Its brilliance blotted out the woods, the ground, any scent or feel of the forbidding forest. He was alone in a lustrous bubble of light, shielded from wind and strain. Nothing was about him; his hands sought in vain. Suddenly, in the blind whiteness, something touched his hand. Aragorn closed his fingers about it; the object was solid and warm. He pulled.

There was a boom, as sound returned to his ears. The world was utterly dark. He shivered in the night breeze. From near at hand came the sound of weeping.

Aragorn blinked, sight slowly returning in the wake of his dazzlement. He sat hunched on a blanket on the cold ground, turf-covered stones jutting sharp beneath his hip and the palm with which he propped himself up. He was trembling; fever was rapidly claiming him. Moistening his lips, he looked about.

Merry had collapsed over the body of his kinsman, clutching the limp hobbit's shirt as his shoulders shook with sobs. "Frodo," he called, again and again. Pippin lay beside Merry, tears streaming from his closed eyes; his palm rubbed soothingly across Merry's back.

Sam, at Aragorn's other side, seized the Ranger's arm. His face was crumpled with weeping, tears staining his dirty cheeks. "Oh, Mr. Strider, sir! Look what you did."

Aragorn looked. He saw Glorfindel, shaken, draw his fingers back from Frodo's bare shoulder. Sam was clutching Frodo's arm on that side, stroking the skin. He bit his lip against his tears. "It's warmer now. Oh, do feel it, sir. You did it, you and Mr. Glorfindel. You broke the spell!"

Aragorn's gaze snapped to Glorfindel. The Elf seemed weary, his eyes dark. Yet he managed a smile. "I brought them, Dúnadan," he rasped. "I helped to carry their spirits in your wake—all of them. Their love, their hope… walked with you."

Aragorn remembered the impenetrable wall of thorns, that had melted away at the sound of the light voices. He nodded, his head jerking sharply, so he knew he was on the edge of exhaustion himself. "That was well done, _mellon nin_. It was their voices that reached his wandering soul, not mine." He sighed, looking upon the weeping hobbits. "Without their help, and yours, the calling would have been in vain."

Glorfindel heaved a breath. "It is hard to follow… where mortals go."

Aragorn smiled. "I knew you were with me. I felt you ever behind me, warm and radiant as a star."

The lump at his side shifted, as Merry drew away from Frodo. Sniffling, he flashed a startled look at his companion. "Did you feel that, Pip? He's squeezing my hand."

Pippin smiled, eyes closed. "Frodo," he whispered.

Now that Merry had moved away, Aragorn could see Frodo's face. Some color had returned, making him look less like a stature and more like living flesh. His eyes moved beneath his lids, and his breast rose and fell. Slowly, the eyes opened. They gazed fixedly at the sky. His mouth shaped a word, without sound: _Sam_.

Sam, clutching Frodo's left hand to his breast, spoke through the tears streaming down his face. "It's all right now, Mr. Frodo. Rest easy, sir. Everything will be fine."

Frodo's lips parted; he struggled for words. "I was… lost. But you… found me."

Aragorn passed a hand through Frodo's curls. The hobbit's locks were even softer than his skin. _Such an incongruous shell._ Emotion choked him, blocking his voice.

Huskily, Frodo said, "I saw a figure, all… glowing white. He… called me back."

"Did you, Frodo?" Aragorn whispered harshly. Stroking the hobbit's hair, he smiled fondly at him. "How interesting. Earlier tonight, I saw the same thing."


	16. Chapter 16

"_Stars and glory! But the Elves would make a song of that, if ever they heard of it!"  
—"Shelob's Lair," The Two Towers_

With a heavy sigh, Sam trudged up the hill. This was the third day he'd been making the long trek from the party's new encampment to the stream far below, and Sam was getting plenty weary of it.

It didn't help matters that their Elvish friend had whisked Mr. Frodo off at first light the morning after the attack, leaving Sam in sole support of three feverish and mostly helpless patients. Sam understood that time was critical for his master. Mr. Glorfindel had stayed only long enough to locate and help move the party to a new (troll free) cave. Then he had dashed off with Mr. Frodo to attempt the Road, leaving the rest of them as snug as could be arranged. Sam snorted. Snug indeed, if one didn't take into account the short rations and the fact that a shallow cave downslope from a dead troll weren't the best shelter Sam had seen. That fellow was getting ripe, too—as was all too easy to tell when the wind blew right.

At least the Elf had been kind enough to leave most of his food with them, and that flask of _miruvor_, too. That had been a comfort. In some ways, Sam's patients were harder to manage now than they had been at the beginning. At first, Sam had to do all the cooking and nursing single-handed, as the others were down with fever. But lately it seemed that, as his friends' bodies got better, their tempers got worse. If Sam hadn't sworn to stay and look after them, he might have took Bill and ridden towards the sunrise in search of his master, he'd been that tempted more than once.

The sun had already sunk behind the trees, but there was still plenty of daylight left. Sam's thoughts inevitably were drawn towards Rivendell, or more specifically, wherever it was in that place that Mr. Frodo might now be. He _hoped_ his master had reached Rivendell safely. The danger of his wound aside, there were those Black Riders haunting the way. Sam felt pretty sure that Mr. Glorfindel could hold them off all right, despite all the hard work he'd done in helping to bring his master's spirit back—and assuming Mr. Frodo didn't slow him down overmuch. Nothing for it but to hope. Mr. Strider had told Sam that even a fast trip on horseback would take the better part of two days. Mr. Frodo would have reached Rivendell yesterday at the soonest. It was anyone's guess when Lord Elrond would be able to send anyone back for them. Sam hoped it might be soon. Part of him worried that they were just sitting here waiting for another attack—and whether it was trolls, Black Riders, or wolves, Sam didn't want any part of it.

He felt the tremor through the ground afore he heard it: a vibration, as of a heavy footfall. Sam stopped short, heart beating pell-mell. There it was, just on the edge of sound: the shuffle of a footstep. Something was moving through the forest, heading towards the clearing from below.

Soft as a shadow, Sam stooped and ran for the protection of the forest. Pushing through the wall of leaves that bordered the strip of turf, he found a fallen log. It had decayed enough to leave a gap between itself and the soft floor of pine needles; Sam might be able to squeeze himself underneath, if he had to. Anxiously, he crouched behind the log, and peered downhill.

The footsteps grew louder. Sam's first fear—that another troll had found them—was replaced by another worry. Hoofbeats—many hoofbeats. It sounded like four or five horses—mayhap more. He chewed his lip, listening for bells—and didn't hear any.

There! A glimpse of an equine head showed between the leaves some distance down the slope. The horse's head was dark, his rider duskily-robed. Another horse and rider, also darkly garbed, flashed for a moment behind it. Then leaves obscured the view. Sam huddled behind his log, wishing he could shout a warning. The Black Riders had found them! They must have picked up Mr. Frodo's trail from the Road, and tracked it back to this camp. But why? Surely they wouldn't have done that if they'd found Mr. Frodo, and that cursed Ring he bore…

The horses had pushed all the way through the trees, and were now climbing the clear area that hugged the cliff wall. At any moment they would draw even with Sam's hiding place. Would they pass him by? Or might they… smell him? Mr. Merry had repeated to Sam what Mr. Strider had told him on Weathertop—that the Black Riders can smell the blood of living things—smell it, and hate it.

The two lead horses halted. Sam could make out only a few scraps of horsehair through the screen of leaves. They were scarcely a dozen feet away. Had they sensed that Sam was near?

Sam ducked lower, as the other horses caught up—several other horses. Sam's heart was beating fit to burst when he heard it—the soft jingle of bells. The horse at the rear of the party stopped. From the same spot, a musical voice said, "_Mellon no sí._"

Sam popped up, to peer through the leaves. There was a mess of horses, all right, half of them riderless, as well as— "Mr. Glorfindel, sir!"

Sam burst from his hiding place, to find the Elf lord smiling at him. Two other Elves were with him. They were dressed similarly in dark garments—dark but elegant, with bright stones set into the design of their tooled leather tunics. Their faces were so alike that Sam wondered how he might tell them apart, if not for their gear. They were wondrous fair, with faces young, yet tempered with wisdom. With their dark hair and grey eyes, Sam supposed that they looked like Mr. Strider would have, had he been changed from a Man to an Elf.

Sam's golden-haired friend grinned broadly. "Well met, Sam. Once again, I have arrived in time to spare you carrying your burdens. I am glad."

Sam nodded at the two unfamiliar Elves, then rushed past them to meet his friend. "Mr. Glorfindel, I'm so glad to see you, I think I might burst. I thought you was Black Riders."

The Elf smiled grimly. "You need not worry about them for a time, young Sam."

"What do you mean?"

"Let us ride to your camp, and I will tell the entire party at once."

"Mr. Frodo, he…" Sam blushed.

Fortunately the Elf read his thought. "Your master lives, or did when I left Rivendell. But I shall save that tale for later. Now, come."

The Elf leaped lightly from the saddle of his horse—a fine blood bay. Sam said, as Glorfindel lifted him to its withers, "Where is Asfaloth, sir?"

"Here." The Elf nodded at one of the riderless horses. There was another dark one, and a chestnut, and yes, there was Asfaloth, on the far side. All of them bore light packs on their backs. The Elf explained, as he settled Sam, "We trade off riding the horses and letting them bear our bundles. This tires the horses less, and let us to make good speed from Rivendell."

"I wondered how you got here so fast."

"When Lord Elrond learned what had become of your party, he was only too happy to spare his sons to help bring you home as quickly as might be."

"His sons?" Sam looked at the two dark-haired Elves.

"This is Elrohir." Mr. Glorfindel indicated the nearer Elf. "And this is his brother Elladan."

"Elladan!" Sam blushed. "Pardon me, sir, but are you the same Elladan what kilt a troll on the Ettendales?" After Glorfindel's remark upon seeing the troll Mr. Strider had killed, Sam had hounded the Ranger unceasingly until he had heard the full tale.

The Elf threw back his head and laughed. His teeth were very white, his voice like warm butter, and his whole face glowing with joy. "Yes, I am he. I am pleased that my foster brother remembers my encounter so kindly."

Sam puzzled over the term "foster brother," but let it go for now. He continued eagerly, "He said it was you what taught him the tricks he needed to come out on top. Though it were a near thing, sir, I won't deny."

"So I understand. We bring supplies and food, and other means of assistance—though perhaps those will not be so well received."

"What do you mean?" Sam glanced at Mr. Glorfindel, who only smiled.

Elladan laughed. "You will see, and certainly hear, soon enough. Come, let us not linger. Your friends await us."

As used as Sam now was to the plodding climb, the horses seemed to cover the distance in a twinkling. Mr. Glorfindel needed no guiding, as it was he who had discovered the new cave in the first place, about a furlong below the troll-fouled one. As the Elven party climbed the last rise, a whinny rose from over the hill. Asfaloth neighed an answer.

Glorfindel smiled at Sam. "Your Bill sounds happy to see us."

"He won't be the only one."

The injured hobbits and Man had placed their blankets outside the cave entrance to enjoy the warmth of the afternoon sun. Alerted by Bill's greeting, they were already beginning to rise when the approaching horses came into sight. Mr. Strider had braced himself against the wall of the cliff to rise, then straightened with an effort. Mr. Merry was doing the same, while Bill watched the party's progress attentively, ears pricked forward. Only Mr. Pippin remained as he was; he was too dizzy to sit upright yet.

"Dúnadan," Mr. Glorfindel called, as the party drew near, "I have come for my clothes."

"And you shall have them, provided you have remembered to bring me some of my own." Mr. Strider's teeth flashed as white as Elladan's. "_Mae govannen!_ My friends, it is good to see you."

"I hear you need lessons in troll fighting," replied that Elf, smiling in turn as he reined near.

"I'd have done you no credit, I fear."

"You are too modest, Estel." Elladan drew rein and dismounted. "Glorfindel tells me that the troll I met on the Ettendales was nothing next to yours."

"Did he?" Mr. Strider gave the yellow-haired Elf a wry look. Was that a hint of a smile on Mr. Glorfindel's face? The Ranger hobbled forward a step to embrace his… foster brother? Or so Elladan had called him. Sam found himself interested in learning more, but not just this instant.

"Please, sir," he begged Mr. Glorfindel, even as the Elf lowered him to the ground. "Now that we're all together, will you tell me what happened to my master? Did he reach Rivendell safely?"

Mr. Pippin ogled the newcomers from his blanket. Mr. Merry limped to his side.

"We followed the Road east," Mr. Glorfindel began, "with all the speed that Asfaloth could bear. I felt in my heart that the Enemy's servants were not far behind. They found us, indeed, about a mile west the Ford of Bruinen. Asfaloth could not outrun them, for four of the Riders were waiting in ambush. Things might have gone ill, had not my Lord Elrond called down the flood, and carried the Riders away. To my joy I found Mithrandir had arrived but the day before, and he also lent us aid."

"Gandalf!" Mr. Strider cried. "He is at Rivendell, then?"

"Yes, with the Ring-bearer." Mr. Glorfindel looked at Sam. "That is what everyone calls your master now. For he arrived through many perils, still carrying the Ring. You should have seen him at the Ford, dear friends. He defied the Witch-king himself—not a trivial feat for anyone, be he king or warrior."

"And Frodo is neither," said Mr. Merry. "Just a plain hobbit from the Shire, as are we all."

Glorfindel fixed Mr. Merry with his wonderful bright eyes. "I think Frodo of the Shire is not 'just' anything—and neither are his friends."

Sam couldn't drag his mind off the horror of another encounter with the Black Riders. "So, he's all right, then. My master arrived in decent shape?"

The bright eyes dimmed a little. "The encounter with the Witch-king took the last of his strength. He was carried, insensible, to Rivendell. There Lord Elrond, wisest in healing, attends him, with all others so skilled in his household."

Sam's agitation burst forth. "Well, we've got to get to him. Begging your pardon, sir—and your father's too, you other sirs," he added, indicating the Elven brothers, "but Mr. Frodo has got to have his friends and kin beside him. There's nothing like a hobbit to look after a sick hobbit, wonderful as I know Elven healing must be. So, if you don't mind, I'd appreciate it if we got underway." Sam looked warily at the riderless horses. "You don't expect us hobbits to stick to one of those great beasts on our own, do you? I'd sooner walk than ride. It might take longer, but it seems a deal safer."

Elrohir dismounted and approached Sam, while the other Elves started unlading the horses. He knelt between Sam and Mr. Merry. "I understand your concern, young friend. But Frodo already lies under the care of his kind and kin. Do not distress yourself on that account."

Sam shook his head bewilderedly. How could Mr. Frodo have kin at Rivendell? Unless—

Mr. Merry spoke his thought, even as Sam formed it. "_Bilbo!_" he cried. "Bilbo is at Rivendell?"

Elrohir smiled. "He has been an honored guest for many years. He will do all that is best for your master and kinsman, never fear. And Mithrandir is with him as well."

"Mithrandir is… Gandalf?" Sam asked.

The Elf nodded. He rose and crossed to his mount, where he began to loosen his mount's girth strap.

Sam walked with him. "Everyone seems to have a lot of names. Mr. Gandalf turns out to be 'Mithrandir,' and Mr. Frodo's now the Ring-bearer. But Mr. Strider seems to have the most names of all."

Elladan, tossing down a pack at the Ranger's feet, turned towards the Man questioningly. "Strider?"

"You call him 'Estel,'" Sam explained. "And Mr. Glorfindel calls him 'Dúnadan.' But according to Mr. Gandalf—or 'Mithrandir,' if you prefer—his real name is Aragorn."

Elrohir grinned as he lifted off his saddle. "The Son of Arathorn has many names."

"Son of Arathorn." Sam nodded. "Now, that one I've heard before."

"'Strider' is one I have not." Elrohir ran his eyes over the Man, who pursed his lips at the topic at hand. "It suits you."

"I shall not be striding anywhere soon." Mr. Strider seemed desirous to change the subject. "While I am longer of limb than Sam, I doubt that I would be able to ride more than an hour or two before needing a rest. And these hobbits are hurt worse than I."

"Ah, that is why we have brought this." Elladan shook out a roll of cloth from among the items he had piled at the Ranger's feet. It looked like nothing more than a long, sturdy strip of material to Sam, but Mr. Strider groaned.

He met the Elf's sparkling eyes. "No. You cannot expect me to…"

"You said it yourself, Estel," Elrohir interrupted. "Your ribs will not permit you to ride. Do not argue." He raised his hand to forestall a protest. "Glorfindel has described your injuries in great detail, so you needn't try to dissemble."

Mr. Pippin, who couldn't see well from his position, tugged at Mr. Merry's trouser leg. "What are they talking about?"

Mr. Strider answered. "It seems that we are to be carried back to Rivendell on litters."

"Litters?" Mr. Merry eyed the cloth suspiciously.

"We shall fashion poles from suitable branches in the wood," said Glorfindel, "and run them along the sides of the cloth to form a bed. We shall then secure the litter between two horses, so you might be carried without strain."

"Useless as a sack of grain," Mr. Strider growled under his breath.

"Pampered as a hero," Elladan countered. Mr. Strider snorted, looking away.

Mr. Pippin fretted. "Is it… safe? What if the horses took fright? We'd be helpless, trapped between them like that. I don't fancy being bounced into the dirt at high speed!"

Glorfindel stroked the nose of his mount. "Your bearers are among the wisest and gentlest at Rivendell. They will not run wild. Even so, one of us will be astride one of the horses in each pair, to give them guidance at all times. You, Sam, may ride with whichever of us you choose, to keep your friends company."

"Useless… helpless… lying on my back," Mr. Strider muttered.

"What was that, Estel?" called Elrohir. "I could not hear you."

The Man glowered, then nudged the mound of supplies with his foot. "Have you brought us something to eat in your bundles? I needn't tell you our provisions are desperately low."

"Particularly for hobbits," Mr. Merry added, a sentiment with which Sam heartily agreed.

Elrohir said, "We have brought many ingredients for soothing broths and gruels." As Mr. Strider glared at him, he grinned and added, "Also something more substantial. You needn't worry, Estel. None of you will starve on the road."

Mr. Strider growled. Stiffly, he went down on one knee, and began pawing through the pile. "Three days... porridge… lying on my back…"

Glorfindel clapped Sam on the shoulder. "Come, friend Sam. The Dúnadan is right. You shall have time for an excellent meal, while the litters are being made ready. Tonight, you shall feast to your heart's content."

"That sounds fine, sir," said Sam, as Mr. Pippin raised a weak cheer. "But we won't linger too long, will we?"

Mr. Glorfindel smiled kindly. "We shall set out later tonight if you wish, as soon as the horses are rested."

"I'd appreciate that, sir." Sam cut his eyes towards the unhappy Ranger, muttering savagely as he went through the gear. "Right now, I'd best help Mr. Strider with that dinner. I'm not sure he'll make the best job of it, the state he's in."

"That is well." Glorfindel's eyes twinkled. "And I shall look over your friends' hurts, while the brothers fashion the litters."

The Elven brothers, exchanging what were supposed to be hidden smirks, had already begun to walk to the woods. Sam called after them, "Bring back plenty of firewood, if you sirs would be so obliging." Elladan waved a hand in cheerful acknowledgement, as they continued towards the trees.

Sam sighed. "Well, sir, you've got a job to do, and so do I. I've had some fine fare among the Elves—finest I've tasted, if truth be told." He retrieved his two pans, lying ready by the fire pit. "Tonight it's my turn to repay in kind. So work your magic, Mr. Glorfindel, and I'll work mine. Samwise Gamgee's about to do what he does best."

The End


End file.
